


The Low Spark

by gritsinmisery



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Americanisms, Corpses, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, F/M, Jossed, M/M, Nightmares, Other, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Songfic, Transsexual, Unbeta'd, Unsafe Sex, embarrassing early efforts, hell even the consensual sex ends badly, no happy ending, probable drug addiction, ret-conning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-07
Updated: 2007-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-15 17:40:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 25,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/163235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gritsinmisery/pseuds/gritsinmisery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Owen's being angsty again.  He's engaging in various unsafe behaviors, and it's affecting every aspect of his life: work, health, etc.  Soon now something's going to go horribly wrong on a mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after S02E01, but before S02E06. Written post _Doctor Who_ season 3, but before _Torchwood_ season 2 aired. Inspired by "The Low Spark of High-Heeled Boys" by Jim Capaldi and Steve Winwood, and alas, I did include some of the lyrics in the fic. This is the very first fanfic I ever attempted, and should be read with forgiveness.

She had tiny feet, some of the smallest he’d ever seen on an adult human female.  Definitely the smallest he remembered seeing on anyone he’d fucked.  Not that he ordinarily paid attention to such, but these had been showcased: wrapped in shiny black leather at the end of long, long legs emerging from a short black skirt, crossed at the knee and swinging in mid-air as their owner sat perched high on a bar-stool.  It had fascinated him, how tiny her feet looked in those spike-heeled sling-backs.  On closer inspection, so had the mole at the join of the first two toes on her left foot where it was exposed by the deep “v” of the opening of her shoe.

“Toe cleavage,” she’d called it when Owen got her alone, and then laughed breathily as he slid his finger along the edge of the opening and down between those two toes.  Then the laughter stopped and her breath hitched as he replaced his finger with his tongue.  When he’d raised his head again her blue eyes were nearly as dark as his brown ones, and her breathing was just as shallow as his.  He’d let his eyes show the knowledge of strange, dark things, and his smile offered to share them.  Her eyes widened with fear of his offer, but her return smile accepted the challenge.  So he showed her.  Then he left, before he could find out what the knowledge had done to her.  
   
But now those tiny feet were bare, red nail polish clashing oddly with the blue tinge of skin two-days-dead.  Even so they were the best-looking part of her, because it wasn’t just one Weevil that had attacked her, and they’d been thorough.  He looked over the damage, unconsciously rubbing his ribs where the deepest of the gashes was still healing from his own encounter in the cage.

It was the third discovered “pack mauling” this week by the ordinarily solitary creatures, and it had the whole Torchwood team on edge.  Gwen was upset because Weevil attacks of all kinds were becoming more frequent, but Jack’s voiced concern had been about the change in their social behavior.  As if a gang attack could be considered “socialized behavior” in any species, thought Owen.

What had his own nerves in an uproar, other than just dealing with _Weevils_ ferfuckssake, was that this was the fourth one-night-stand he’d had end up on his autopsy table in as many weeks.  The last two had been attacked the same night he left them.  And every victim of the attacks he’d examined -- not just the women he’d had himself but every single one, male and female -- carried traces of a sexual encounter in the 24 hours before they died.  That information hadn’t really got his attention until he’d opened the zip on a body bag last week to stare at the dead face of a woman he’d left 14 hours earlier.

Now all of the facts pointed one direction, but they only left Owen with a head full of questions:  Could Weevils really “smell” sex?  What about it drew them together and set them off into a killing frenzy?  Why now, when Torchwood had been aware of them for years, and they’d never displayed this behavior before?  
   
Were some of them now following him each night, knowing he’d probably lead them to a new victim?  
   
What happened if they decided he should be next?

And how the fuck did he report this information to the team without exposing his own behavior to explain how and why he came to this conclusion?  
   
He slid the slab into the chamber, shut the door and slammed the latch home.  She was Ianto’s problem now, he thought as he climbed the steps out of the morgue.  Ianto cleaned up their messes, whether it was coffee cups, pizza boxes, witnesses, or corpses.  Depending on who she was, she’d either be found in a much-deteriorated state after a few weeks, or she’d disappear forever from every public and private record accessible by means both legal and nefarious.  If the latter, soon she’d exist only in the fading memories of a couple of people as the nameless coworker who disappeared one weekend, the pretty girl who used to live upstairs, the quick shag in patent-leather sling-back stilettos with a well-placed mole on her left foot.

~~##~~  
   
Owen hit “send” on his latest report and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing his face with both hands.  The report stated his conclusion about the attacks and gave the back-up data, but not why he’d noticed the trend.  He’d deal with that question in person if it came up.  God, he needed to get out of here, needed something to take the edge off, needed to forget, needed to find Robbie.  There were some drugs that even the medical lead of a Torchwood team couldn’t justify ordering: things recreational, things illegal, things dangerous in the wrong hands and quite often even in the right ones.  Things Robbie was only too happy to supply, for a price.  Things Doctor Owen Harper’s bank account could afford, but things for which Owen Harper, Torchwood operative would find himself waking up in a sanitarium after being Ret-Conned if he were discovered obtaining.  
   
So he grabbed his jacket and went stomping up out of the lab and past the workstations, not-quite-accidentally dragging his messenger’s bag across the corner of the absent Toshiko’s desk, scattering print-outs across the Hub floor.  She’d go ballistic when she found them that way, or possibly Ianto would scurry to try to replace them before she returned and then be all red-faced and guilty when she complained that they weren’t exactly how she’d left them.  Either way it would be an interesting show, but he didn’t plan on being there to see it.

“Harper?  Report!” bellowed Jack from the stairs to the board room.  Owen didn’t know if he’d heard the stomping and crashes and come out to investigate, or if he’d just been in his usual “lord on high, surveying his kingdom” pose at the board room window.  Didn’t care, either.  
   
“Submitted.  Computer.  Fuck off, Harkness.”  He palmed the panel so that the big round door would roll closed behind him, giving him a couple of extra minutes to get up and out of the building and across the Plas should the Captain object to this fond farewell.

On the far side of the Plas in a CCTV blind spot, he swapped phone headsets with his personal mobile line, the one hidden behind two layers of false corporate names and another fake personal identity. Working for an agency with a bad habit of digging up buried information had taught him just how far he needed to go to stand a chance of keeping something private.  He dialed the number from memory, not risking it being found in the speed-dial should he “lose” the phone.  
   
“Robbie?  Yeah.  Nah, it’s gone already.  It was weak shite; I had to do double the amount you told me to get any effect.  
   
“Don’t you fucking give me that.  I know what I’m doing; I’m a fucking doctor.  Now, do you have anything I can get tonight?  Something that _works_ this time, Robbie.”  Owen was snarling, although he knew it wasn’t a good idea to do so at his supplier.  He decided to back off a little.  
   
“Look, I’m sorry.  Work’s a bitch.  I just need something to help me relax, unwind.  Maybe something different, something better, something a little stronger.  
   
“Great.  Yeah, you fucking well know I’m good for it.  Have you ever not been paid?  Damn right.”  He glanced at his watch to check the time, mentally calculating how quickly he needed to make it back to his flat and shower before the meet-up.  
   
“Right then.  Nine o'clock, Orb-and-Crown.  I’ll be there, Robbie.  Ta.”  Mobile headsets really took all the joy out of slamming down an old-fashioned telephone receiver, he thought.  Probably for the best.


	2. Chapter 2

He was floating a bit. Not really buzzed, or flying, or numb, just more like there was a thin cushion of air between his feet and the pavement, between his muscles and his skin. The crushing weight on his chest that made every breath an effort was gone. So was the tension that normally pulled his shoulders up around his ears and hunched him over, that drew his hands into fists, that clenched his jaw so tightly he feared his teeth would shatter against each other some day. He could stand straight with his shoulders back, he could saunter, he could smile, he could laugh. He would have done had he found this situation amusing, but it wasn’t.

The black-clad muscle running the entry queue at his favorite club stopped Owen with a hand on his chest as he tried to walk past with an acknowledging nod. “Bugger off,” the bouncer rumbled. “Yer not wanted ‘ere no more.”

“What? I’ve been coming here twice a week for a year now!” Owen scowled and blinked several times, trying to imagine what this was about.

“Management’s orders. Yer banned. Go.”

Owen put his hand on the bouncer’s arm to move it off his chest and go around, but the guy’s backup stepped out into the light from where he had been leaning in the shadows of the club’s brick exterior. Instead, Owen put both hands up in mock surrender, a conciliatory smile on his face, and stepped backwards away from the entrance. He turned and walked away, shaking his head as he failed to come up with any memories that would have led this situation.

The welcome at his secondary haunt was even less friendly. The poshly-dressed girl who ran the entrance there grabbed his sleeve with a red-taloned hand as he passed her, headed for the tail end of the queue. “Don’ bovver.”

He stopped and spun on one heel to face her, then held up both hands again as her muscle stepped up behind her. “I’m not pushin’ it, mate," he informed the bouncer. Looking back to the girl he continued, "I just want to know – why?”

“Are you barmy? After the bust-up you caused? We had people in ‘ere from the moment the police left, cleanin’ up so we could open the next night.

“I dunno who yer friends in the black van are, or how the ‘ell they got you got outta takin’ a ride downtown wiv the coppers. But they won’t get you in ‘ere no more.”

Owen walked off again, scrubbing his face with both hands as he tried to summon a memory to match the girl’s tale. Last time he’d come to this club…

…he’d decided to double his dose, because it wasn’t giving him what he was looking for. That had worked, because he remembered feeling really, really good, especially after he’d added a drink (or three) to the mix. Maybe he’d chatted up some pretty girl, because he always chatted some girl up, that was what he was there for. And maybe her boyfriend had objected, because half the time if she was worth it, then yeah she did have a boyfriend. And sometimes boyfriends showed their objection by throwing punches and furniture around. But the girls, the boyfriends, the fights, they all sort of ran together in his head in a blur. He sure as fuck didn’t remember somebody from Torchwood pulling his ass out of the fire. Ever.

Which for a second made him wonder how many times they’d done it.

Then the thought was gone and he was floating again. He walked on down the dark street, going from puddle to puddle of light from the street lamps, half-feeling for the thump-thump-thump of sub-woofers pounding out a driving dance beat, half-listening for the murmur of distant voices in an entrance queue, raised to be heard over that beat. He considered just chucking it in for the night, but he didn’t want to waste the buzz and dammit, he wanted –- no, needed -- to get laid.

His feet and ears led him to a place he’d never seen before. The queue was mostly women, wearing a lot of bright colors and spangles, but after being turned away twice already Owen decided he could put up with a little trash-and-flash.

He noticed he had a lot of attention as he crossed the street to the queue, then the guy running the door called out in a gravelly voice, “Oh no honey, nice dresser like you, in you get,” and dropped the rope for him with a smile. Dr. Harper silently diagnosed pre-cancerous nodules on the larynx, probably from smoking, and nodded his thanks as he walked inside.

Walking into this club was like entering any other: deafeningly loud, a pattern of bright flashes in darkness, a crushing crowd that made you feel oh-so-isolated. Owen stepped to one side just inside the door to allow his eyes and ears to adjust, and surveyed the lay of the land. Not much point in fighting his way through the crowd until he knew where the bloody bar was, he figured.

The ground level was just a balcony surrounding the underground main level on all four sides, lined with small round tables full of people with their heads nearly touching so they could hear each other over the music. Staircases ran down from either side balcony. Some people hung over the banister watching the bodies on the dance floor, others pushed past the gawpers, carrying drinks, their heads on a swivel for an empty table or their companions.

Owen could see that the bar ran along the back and left side of the main level under the balcony, and there were more tables under the right side. A door opening in the back right corner was steadily lit, with a continual stream of people moving in and out; it had to be the loo. The main open space was dance floor, and Christ it was packed. He assumed the DJ’s booth was directly underneath him because he could see no other place for it.

He pushed his way along the balcony and down a staircase, catching a lot of eyes on his way, but not matching any of the smiles. He didn’t really mind being checked out but he sure wasn’t going to encourage anyone before he’d even had a drink. Spying an empty barstool at the bar on the back wall, he made an effort to beat out anyone else that had designs on it.

“What’ll you have, handsome?” The kid tending the bar smiled encouragingly, but Owen didn’t smile back. But he didn’t snarl at the guy, either. Robbie’s new stuff was nice.

“Whiskey. Neat. Double.”

Owen picked up the proffered glass and turned to watch the room. The dance floor was a gyrating version of the entrance queue: about two-thirds female and lots of bright colors and sequins caught in the spinning lights from overhead. It was almost too dizzying, too hard on the eyes to watch for long. He closed his eyes and tossed back a large portion of the contents of his drink, then shifted his attention to the people sitting at the bar as the alcohol burned its way into his gut. It joined forces with the stuff Robbie’d provided, and suddenly he was flying. Time to start the action, then.


	3. Chapter 3

Owen scanned the dance floor for a minute, and gave up trying to see faces in the crowd. He turned his attention to the people at the bars. Halfway down the bar on the left wall was a pair of legs hanging beneath a short red dress, ending in a pair of shiny red stiletto sling-back pumps. The shoes tickled his memory for a second and then the tickle gave up trying. He looked up from the legs to see a thin body and a pleasant face with hazel eyes, arching eyebrows, and lips a little darker than the dress. Nothing to launch a thousand ships, but mildly pretty. Her light brown hair fell in a soft wave to her shoulders, and something red glinted in her earlobes.

She noticed him, and her expression asked if she was the one he was looking at. He gave a quick nod, finished off his drink, set the glass down, and walked over to her.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in toward her face so she could hear him over the music. “Owen.”

“Hey back,” she answered, and leaned in too. “Ginny.”

Something on his face must have shown that he didn’t think she was telling him the truth. She laughed a little and continued, “Full name’s Virginia. Bit of a piss, really.” She watched him to see if he got the joke.

Whether it was that someone with such a formal name shouldn’t be in a very short, bright red dress or whether she just hadn’t been a virgin in a very long time, either way he could see the funny. He gave a little snort and answered, “Yeah.” That earned him a nice smile.

“You need another?” she asked, and at Owen’s nod she waved at the bartender. “Another white, David,” she said, pointing to her glass, “And…” she turned to Owen. “Whiskey?” He nodded. “Neat?” He nodded again. She turned back and repeated it to David. Smart girl, he thought. Either she’d been watching him earlier, or she just knew her men.

He rewarded her by having his money out when David came back with their drinks. “No, I’ve got it,” Ginny said, but Owen just shook his head at David and laid the bills on the bar. They disappeared.

They both picked up their drinks, settled their backs against the bar, and looked around the club. Then she leaned over toward him, still not looking at his face. “This is where I say something dumb about you being new here,” she remarked.

He grinned at that. “This is where I give you the line about wanting a fresh start, or maybe the one about being new in town,” he answered, not looking at her, either. “Both are bollocks, of course.”

She smiled into her glass in response. “So, truth then?” she asked.

“Ladies first,” he replied.

“You _haven’t_ been here before. You’re a decent looking bloke, nicely dressed, and I don’t know what the hell you’re doing standing next to me. Your turn.” She looked at his face.

“I’ve been permanently tossed out of at least two other clubs for, ahem, ‘inciting to riot’ I think the coppers call it. I just wandered in here.” He looked at her.

“And to answer your last question – it may be your shoes.”

Suddenly the music dropped to drums and a five-note piano riff. A slow, smoky saxophone line snaked in and out around them. An electric organ and a guitar took turns sliding in and out of the song, never overtaking the sax line, which slipped into Owen’s head and made him think of dark corners and figures silhouetted by dim streetlights.

The spinning lights in the club all stopped. The only thing still going was the ubiquitous mirrored ball, casting small moving squares over the dance floor and the club walls. As if by magic, what had been an undefined squirming mass on the dance floor became couples pressed closely together.

The song seemed familiar, but Owen was flying way too high to dig it out of his memories. “What the fuck?” he leaned over and asked Ginny.

“It’s some old shit, some stoner rock band from like 1970. A couple of the older regulars started requesting it a while back so they could snog and grab arse, er… slow dance. They called it ‘their song,’ sentimental old…” her voice dropped off with a fond note as she shook her head. “A few others decided a slow dance was a good idea and pretty soon somebody was requesting it four or five times a week. Now the DJs just play it once a night. It gives everybody a chance to lock lips and hips, see if they like the way they fit together.” She glanced sideways at Owen to see how he was reacting to the story.

He looked thoughtful for a few seconds, then glanced over at her and inclined his head towards the dance floor. “Would you care to dance, miss?” he asked in an exaggerated courteous tone.

“I’d be delighted, sir,” she aped his tone in reply.

As she stepped into his arms on the dance floor, the vocals came up:

 _If you see something that looks like a star  
And it's shooting up out of the ground  
And your head is spinning from a loud guitar…_

She was thin, he thought. Not nearly so filled out as his usual type, hardly any tits at all. In her red spiked heels they were eye to eye, but Owen was used to that. He’d found that the advantage of matching heights in the sack made up just a bit for the abuse he’d taken as kid for being a short, scrawny know-it-all.

She looked into his eyes for a minute, searching for something, then closed hers and laid her cheek against his. He was pretty sure his eyes hadn’t answered anything, but he was fine with the closeness.

Suddenly the song’s tempo doubled as the key went from minor to major. Owen stiffened. “Wha?”

Ginny lifted her face away from his. “It’s only the chorus that does that. Most people don’t even stop slow dancing. Look around.” Sure enough, none of the couples had bothered to separate, or even change tempo. He relaxed back into her and pulled her face back to his with a hand on the back of her head. As the last words of the chorus died, the rhythm line returned to the original slow five notes.

When the spinning lights and pounding base came back up at the end of the song, she laid a tentative kiss on his cheek and he turned his mouth into the kiss for just a couple of seconds. They turned away from the dance floor without a word and Owen led her by the hand back to their place at the bar. She slid onto her stool; he waved at David and tapped the bar. Two more drinks appeared.

Ginny took a sip from her glass without looking at him. “So, are you coming home with me tonight, or will you keep looking?”

Owen was in a very mellow mood, and saw no reason to reject the offer. “I expect so. Did you think we fit?”

“I thought we fit nicely, but I’ve no idea what you think.” She looked over at him with that. He thought there were more questions in her glance than just the one she’d voiced, but he couldn’t imagine any others that needed answered.

“I think I like the fit. Close-to-even seems to work best for me.” He saw her relax with his answer. “I also think we should finish our drinks.”

“I think you’re right.”


	4. Chapter 4

“Do we need a cab?” Owen asked as they walked out of the club. He’d had another dose of Robbie’s miracle cure while Ginny went back to the bathroom, and he knew he couldn’t find his way anywhere on his own at the moment.

“I live two blocks over. If you’re too pissed to walk that, you’re too pissed for anything else as well.” Finishing one drink had turned into two more as they had leaned against the bar, watched the crowd, and held a running commentary on various people’s clothes and dancing ability.

Walking. At night. A distant alarm went off in a far corner of Owen’s mind, but the din was well muffled by layers of alcohol and drugs. He slid one arm around Ginny’s shoulder and she put one of hers around his waist. “Right, off we go. But I’m holding you to that two-block comment.”

They stepped into her flat, which was nothing but a main room with two doors leading off it, one for the bedroom and one for the bath. A single lamp was burning low in the corner, next to a battered couch. “It’s a bit of a dump,” Ginny said as she tossed her bag on a wire bistro table next to the wall that held a tiny kitchen. “I work in a bookshop. The pay is shite.”

“You have a bed?” asked Owen, pulling her into his arms.

“Yeah. Only decent piece of furniture in the flat.” She wrapped herself around him.

“Then your place is great.” He slid one hand up into her hair, tilted her head, and pulled her into a kiss. The talking portion of the evening was over.

He walked her backwards to her bedroom while she worked on the buttons of his shirt, their mouths still together. She pulled it out of his trousers and ran her hands up his bare chest to his shoulders. He let go of her long enough for her to push it off his arms onto the floor, and decided that bedroom window with its curtain drawn back let in enough illumination from the street lamps to serve their purpose.

Owen put his arms back around her and reached for the top of her dress. He lowered the zip on the back of her dress, following it down with a finger as he went. She lowered her arms as he pushed the straps off her shoulders, and the red dress lay next to his shirt.

He’d been right earlier; she was rail-thin with small breasts. Probably not eating enough in order to pay for the flat on her meager earnings, he thought. But they were still soft and very responsive under his touch. He enjoyed the way she shuddered as he ran his thumbs over her nipples.

He kicked off his shoes during the next two steps toward the bed, because her hands were on his belt, undoing it. She was brushing his obvious erection through his trousers, and taking her own sweet time about getting him out of them. Belt tang; brush. Belt end; slide, rub. Trouser button; brush, grip. Trouser zip: slowly, slowly down, pressing against him all the way. He was nearly crazy.

His cock sprang free as she tore her mouth away from his to slide his trousers and underwear down to the floor. In a second her mouth was back on his, her hands cupping him, sliding up and down his length. His eyes closed automatically, and the haze behind them spread through his head. He pushed himself in and out of her hands as they took the last two steps to the bed.

He put a little pressure on her shoulders and she fell backwards onto the bed and slid over to make room. The window cast a strip of amber light across them as they quickly reached for each other again. She wrapped a leg around him; he grabbed her hip to pull her against him. He ran his hand up and down her back and ass, noticing that there was still a scrap of red satin covering her.

“We’ve got to get you out of this, and me into you,” he murmured against her mouth as he hooked a finger under it. She lifted her hips and bent her legs to help him as he slid them down her legs. She kicked them off the bed with a foot.

He rolled her onto her back and stopped. One part of his brain told him what he was seeing, but alcohol and drugs kept him from connecting it to where he thought he was: poised to have a nice fuck with a decent-looking bird.

“Christ. Are you a bloke?” His tone was more confused than angry.

“Only bits,” she whispered. “I’m changing that. Not done yet, so I have a body that’s still male in spots. Ignore ‘em.”

The medical dictionary in his head supplied him with the word. Had he been sober, it would have handed him the course of treatment. “Transsexual.” She nodded.

“Close your eyes, Owen.” She slid her fingers down his eyelids with a feather-light touch. “Do I feel like a bloke? Do I sound like one? I am a girl. There’s just a little problem with the current plumbing, and that can be worked around.” Ginny ran her hands down his sides, over his ass, and around to slide up and down his cock. He couldn’t help pushing against her hands.

She spread her legs and shifted her hips so his tip was poised at her entrance. “This is the same Ginny you’ve been with all night. And she wants you, and she’ll make you feel good.”

Owen couldn’t resist her words or her touch any more, and pushed inside her. She was hot, and she was somehow wet, and she was tight, and it did feel very good.

“See? It’s just Ginny with the red shoes,” she whispered as she moved her hips, coaxing a rhythm out of him.

“Just Ginny, who loves the feel of you inside her.” She ran her hands up his chest to his shoulders, barely catching his nipples with her nails as she did. His brain gave up any further protests and his cock took over completely. His thrusts grew faster, deeper.

“Just Ginny.” Quietly, slowly she reached for the flannel under her pillow. She laid it over her cock and pulled it to one side, to keep from spoiling the moment for him.

“Just Ginny.” And then she came.

The clinching around him drove Owen over the edge and he called her name as he followed her. “Ginny.”

~~##~~

He woke up slowly. The room was dark except for the slash of amber light across the bed, across his body and the one he had an arm flung over. Ginny.

She must have felt him move as he came to, because she opened her eyes and gave him a tentative smile. “Hey.”

Owen wasn’t sober yet, but he was thinking a whole lot more clearly. And remembering. He just looked at her for a minute, then sat up, knees bent, and scrubbed his face with his hands while he tried to grasp the situation. “You’re a transsexual.”

She nodded her head, then rolled onto her side, propping herself up on one elbow and resting her face in her hand. “You were in a drag bar. Most of the people there in dresses are just gay. What did you expect?”

“I didn’t know. I was just wandering, I found a place, I went in. I picked out somebody and chatted her up. I went home with her for a quick fuck. That’s what I do.” He didn’t look at her.

“I’m flattered… I think.” She let the qualifier hang between them for a minute. “You seem to understand what I am.”

“Yeah, yeah, gender identity opposite of chromosomal. Therapy, hormones, surgery if you pass muster. Doctor here.” He raised one hand.

“It’s a little more complicated when you’re living it, _Doctor_ ,” she said softly. “But you seem to adapt to ‘complicated’ quickly.”

Owen tried to think back. He remembered hands, and mouths, and a frantic need. He remembered closing his eyes and giving into that need, driving into tight, wet warmth. “I didn’t hurt you.” It was a statement, but also a question.

“I used lube in the toilet in the club. I didn’t want to have to stop for anything,” she admitted.

“I didn’t use a condom.”

“Yeah,” she laughed nervously. “I tested clean two weeks ago. I hope, Doctor Shags-a-lot, that you’ve been testing, too.”

He laughed silently at the moniker, and finally turned to look at her. “Bastard, but not a stupid bastard. Regularly tested, and… usually smart enough to grab what’s in my pocket before I ‘drop trou.’ You had me flying tonight, Just Ginny.”

“I think you had a lot of chemical help, but I’ll take the compliment. Now, if you want to clean up before you run shrieking from here because you’ve shagged a bloke, the loo’s the one room you haven’t seen.”

He gave her a rueful smile and shook his head. Rolling off the bed, he grabbed his clothes and went to the next room.

He was staring at himself in the mirror over the sink when the Weevil attacks flashed into his head. He grabbed the flannel hanging on the edge of the sink and scrubbed, resolving to deal with staying in the flat until a taxi arrived. Cracking the door open, he yelled, “Ginny, I’m calling a taxi, what’s your address?” and then repeated it to the dispatcher.

When he dressed and came out of the bathroom, Ginny was in an old t-shirt and a pair of loose shorts, pouring herself a glass of Coke in what passed for her kitchen. She waved the glass at him, and he shook his head.

Owen decided he’d seen enough faces he knew on his autopsy table, and chose a story to match the facts. “Listen,” he said seriously. “This is important.” He waited until she turned to look at him.

“I sometimes work with the police on crime scenes. There’s a gang roaming the area at night. They like to watch the clubs and pubs, and jump people walking home. Sometimes they’ll even follow a couple to where they’re going and wait outside, just to see if it’s a quick shag and to attack whoever leaves.

“They’re a nasty lot. They cut, and they kill. They don’t even take the victims’ money or I.D. Psychopaths, or religious nuts, or something, apparently anti-sex. But Cardiff’s finest won’t broadcast a warning, because they ‘don’t want to start a panic.’ Stupid bastards.

“Don’t walk anywhere after dark but straight home, Ginny. If you go home with somebody, take a cab afterwards, even if you have to go without something because of the cost. And tell all your friends.”

“Jesus. Are you trying to scare me, Owen?” A taxi horn sounded outside the flat.

“Yes. I’d rather scare you than scrape you up off of an alley pavement."


	5. Chapter 5

The insect kept circling Owen’s head, making a horrendous buzzing noise.  He swatted at it ineffectually.  He knew it was all the blood that was attracting it.  There was no escaping the blood: it was on the floor, on his shoes, on his clothes, on his hands.  Some of it was Gwen’s, from when he’d dug the shot out of her earlier.  The rest… well he didn’t want to think about where the rest came from.  His memory flashed to various scenes of severed limbs and tarps, and skittered away from that idea, gibbering slightly.  He didn’t want to hear that insect any more, either.  With one great effort he reached out to smack it down…

…and jerked himself awake.  As the nightmare cleared out of his brain, he realized the buzzing came from his mobile on the bedside table.  He fumbled for it and hit the button as he lifted it to his head.

“Yeah?”  
   
“Owen?  Are you ill?”  Gwen’s concern came across in her voice, both confusing and annoying him.  
   
“Wha?  No, I’m not… Wha’ time‘s it?”  His mouth felt like he’d been eating cotton wool, and his thoughts like they were fighting their way through more of it.

“It’s gone half-ten.  Jack’s fussing for reports on last night’s bodies, and you’re not even here yet.  You sound awful.  Are you sure you’re alright then?”  Ah.  Gwen had been elected to roust him, he thought.  Trust Jack-bloody-Harkness to use a bit of psychology when choosing the messenger least likely to be shot. 

“Fucking alarm didn’t go off, and I was back in Brynblaidd in my sleep.  So yeah, it’s taking me a minute to wake up.  Give me half an hour to get decent, and I’ll be there.”  _Doctor_ Harper knew a bit of psychology himself, and mentioning that little excursion was guaranteed to instantly diffuse the anger of any member of the team.  It had the bonus of being the truth in this case.  Still, he hung up the phone before he had to hear the sympathy he’d just encouraged.  
   
~~##~~

Owen felt like the walking dead when he entered the Hub, but he was cogent enough to decide that no one but he would think it funny if he started moaning “Braaaaaaaaaaains.”  He closed his eyes against the flashing light that went off to announce an authorized entry through the main door.  He resolved to give the person who thought that was a good idea an appendectomy -- with a blunt scalpel and no anesthesia -- should he ever meet him or her.  
   
“Nice of you to join us this morning, Dr. Harper.”  Jack stood by Tosh’s workstation, arms crossed.

Gwen raised her head from where she and Tosh had been studying a map on a monitor, to glare at her boss.  “Jack…” she said in a warning tone. 

Just fucking great, thought Owen.  She’d told Jack about the nightmare, and probably Tosh and Ianto, too.  Speaking of which…  “Where’s Tea-Boy?  Oi, Ianto!  I need a coffee!”  His own voice bounced around inside his skull, causing fresh pain.  
   
“Yes, I thought you might,” a quiet voice came from behind him. 

Owen startled and turned.  “Bloody ‘ell.” 

Ianto stood just far enough behind him to keep Owen from knocking the mug out of his hand.  He handed it to Owen.  “There’s Danish, but I didn’t think you’d want one yet.”  
   
“God, no.”  The ready mug and the extra-quiet tone were meant specifically to be easy on a hangover, Owen knew.  That annoyed him just as much as Gwen’s solicitousness.  He chose to express his displeasure by turning his back on Ianto, effectively dismissing him without a word of thanks.  “So then, you’ve something that requires my expert analysis?”  
   
Jack snorted and turned back to the map and Tosh and Gwen, giving the latter a look that said today, she was in charge of dealing with the office asshole.  
   
She stood up and started down the steps to the lab, knowing Owen would follow.  “Erm, yeah.  There’s another victim of the Weevil pack, and then something new that Jack and Ianto ran across on their way back last night.  Or maybe I should say ran into,” she ended with a giggle.

“It was in the middle of the road!” Jack’s voice followed them down the stairs.

“Really, sir, if you’d let me drive –“ Ianto could be heard admonishing as his voice faded away.

“Seen one Weevil victim, seen them all.  So, Captain Harkness hit a sheep in the middle of the night, and since he’s so bloody extraordinary, it must be an alien?”  Owen smirked as Gwen stopped in front of the cold storage doors.  
   
“Seriously Owen, it’s a bit bigger.” Gwen yanked the slab out of its bay.  Reaching up to pull the zip on the body bag, she added, “And have you ever seen a sheep this particular color of blue?”  
   
Nor with insides that shade of purple, thought Owen, glad he had nothing but a sip of coffee on his stomach.  He turned to set down his mug on a side table and grab his lab coat off a stool.  “Oof.  Bet that sent the SUV to the garage for a new bumper.

“Right then.  Let’s see what the mighty alien hunter has slain for us today.”  Gwen started back up the stairs as Owen pulled a tray of instruments out of an autoclave.  
   
~~##~~

“Bollocks!”  Owen’s voice rose from the lab.  Gwen and Toshiko exchanged a ‘what now?’ look, and Tosh shrugged.  
   
There was the sound of a small door slamming, and a couple of loud thumps.  “C’mon, c’mon… Bloody hell!”  
   
Gwen turned at the sound of tapping on glass to see Jack, one eyebrow raised.  She sighed, pushed back her chair, and walked over to the banister of the lab steps.  “Owen?  Is something the matter?” she called down.  
   
“Too right there’s something the matter!  I just recalibrated this machine yesterday morning.  Took three bleedin’ hours.  Now when I need it, I can’t get it to power up!”  He glared at the box in question.  
   
“Um, did you plug it in?”  Gwen winced as she asked the question.  
   
“What kind of stupid git do you… Of course it’s plugged in.  See?  Cord.  Plug.  Wall.”  He pointed to the outlet in question, and Gwen shifted down the banister a bit to see.  She also had a view of the back of the box now, and she bit her lip to stifle a smile.  
   
“Owen?”  She was trying not to giggle.  Really she was.  
   
“What?”  
   
“You might want to plug the cord into the back of the machine, too.”  The giggle escaped, and she ran back to Tosh’s workstation before he could throw something at her.  
   
“Bloody. Fucking.  Hell!”


	6. Chapter 6

“I made you a plate from lunch,” Ianto’s voice came down from above. Owen looked up to the main level to see him standing by the banister.

“Yeah, right, ta. Tricky stuff here.” He waved the printout he was holding. “Catch it in a tic.” He returned to scanning the results.

“You know where it is,” replied Ianto, and walked away.

Owen shook his head at the numbers on the printout in his hand, circled a couple of them with the pen in the other, and then chewed on the pen. Jack’s blue beastie is a toxic mess, he thought. So said all the tests he’d run on samples he’d taken earlier, once he had the machines working. (And Gwen Cooper knew just exactly what she could do with that plug.) He wasn’t looking forward to dissecting it. It would be something like disconnecting the parts of a metal-plating plant, without draining the hoses and baths first.

He noticed his shoulders were hunched nearly up around his ears, and stretched out both arms to the front and back, trying to work out the tension. Then he shifted his head from side to side. He rotated his jaw. Nothing worked. His shoulders hurt, his back hurt, his neck hurt. Clenching his teeth had added another layer of headache on top of where he was paying for the previous night’s fun.

~~##~~

He pulled the plate from the refrigerator and stared at its contents through the clingfilm: tikki masala and naan. Third time this week, he sighed to himself. The food did not coax his missing appetite into reappearing, but he hoped maybe it would when reheated. He lifted the clingfilm and put the plate in the microwave to warm up.

The smell set his stomach to rolling, and he went from having no appetite to being nauseated. Swallowing hard a couple of times, he stared at the meal willing himself to be hungry, then slid the contents of the plate in the bin. He decided on just a glass of water to wash the sour taste of stomach acid out of his mouth.

“Hair of the dog,” whispered a little voice in his head. Owen considered the proposition. Half a dose would ease the tension in his muscles and the pounding in his head without messing him up so badly he couldn’t get anything done. If he put the blue beastie away in favor of the Weevil victim, there shouldn’t be any problem. The human corpse held no surprises like the alien’s might. He refilled his glass and carried it back down to the lab, where a pocket in his jacket still held Robbie’s latest offering from the world of recreational pharmaceuticals.

~~##~~

“Right then, in you get,” Owen said to his toxic blue subject as he slid it back into storage. Bagged and chilled it should keep until tomorrow, he thought, and smiled at how that sounded like something he’d heard on a cooking show during a round of late-night telly viewing. That was something he’d done a lot of between the time Diane had left and when he’d discovered Robbie. Chat shows, cooking shows, programs full of saccharine presenters selling absolute shite: he’d watched them all rather than face an empty bed and the nightmares that came when he finally fell asleep. Watched everything except old movies. Old war movies especially made him dig out a bottle and drink himself into oblivion. There’d been more than a few mornings just like this one before Owen had decided that even repeats of game shows were preferable viewing.

He rolled his head and neck, pleased to find them loose and pain-free. Now he’d just start Tosh on a search in the records for their blue friend, slap together a report on the latest horny git to fall prey to the Weevils, and call it a day, he thought. It was Gwen’s turn on Weevil-watch tonight, so he could go out to play.

Scooping up the various read-outs from his morning tests, he went upstairs and slapped the pile on Toshiko’s desk. “Be a good girl, see if there’s any previous mention of this thing: blue on the outside, purple on the inside, particulars on these printouts.”

Tosh glared up at him over the top of her glasses. “Owen, we’re very busy mapping out this Weevil problem. It’ll make our life much easier if we can predict where they’ll be before they strike.” She gestured at Gwen next to her, and the monitors with various maps displayed.

Owen didn’t get annoyed; he just went into bulldozer mode. “Yeah well, I need to know if I’m in for more than just some wicked chemistry when I slice this thing open, which Jack wants done soonest. Oh, and it’d be nice to know if these things run in pairs or packs, in case there’s another one or more of them out there to stop traffic. Not everyone would handle slamming his auto into something like this as well as Jack does. So if you really can’t do this, start Tea-Boy on it. Before somebody like, say, me, gets hurt.”

Toshiko just sighed and picked up the papers. “I’ll see if Ianto will handle it. He’s working in the archives this afternoon; he won’t like it.” She looked up, but Owen’s head was already disappearing out of sight down into the lab. “No ‘please’, no ‘thank you’. Delightful.” Gwen hummed in agreement.

~~##~~

“So,” said Owen to himself, pulling the Weevil victim out of the locker, “who’s the next contestant on _I Hope It Was Worth It_?” He tensed up a bit as he pulled down the zip on the body bag, then relaxed again. “Ah. Male, Caucasian, early 40s. Nobody I know. Well then. Do we have a positive I.D. yet?”

He reached for the folder lying on top of the man to read Ianto’s initial report. “Steven Green, 42… Ooh, not anywhere near home, were you? Slumming a bit? Uh-oh, missus and kiddies. Slumming for certain. Well then, my lad, it’s a Ianto clean-up special for you, followed by a closed-casket ‘do’ when they find you.

“Tea-Boy hates that, he does, when he has to send one of you lot back out into the world. He’d much rather do his clean-up on a computer than on a body. Can’t say as I blame him, but it does provide a bit of entertainment to watch him face the fact.”

Owen reached for his digital recorder and his lighted magnifying glasses. “Right then, before we get to the carnage, let’s find out if the trend holds, if you were slickin’ your wick like all the rest. Hmm, they tore you up pretty good down there, barely hanging on, you are. Ah, there. That isn’t yours.”

He turned on the recorder and started documenting his findings. There was evidence of recent sexual activity. There were claw and bite marks, matching those of adult Weevils in six different sizes, to the arms, legs, and torso, with clothing fibers embedded. There was the take-down bite to the neck – going for the blood vessels, not the windpipe to suffocate like a big cat would – and a concurrent lack of blood in the body. Owen rubbed his shoulder where he had his own scar from a matching bite that had been just an inch away from fatal. There were two impacted wisdom teeth. There was epidermal material under the fingernails that would match Weevil skin when tested; he would bet his jazz collection on it.

After opening him up, Owen could easily tell his story. Lots of beer and greasy pub-grub meant it was a pick-up, not a girl friend. But the Llanrumney postal code meant he’d come into town looking for it, not just been here from out-of-town on business and taken a chance. He wasn’t getting what he wanted at home, and paid for a quick fuck with his life. Stupid, sorry bastard, thought Owen.

He plugged the recorder into a computer and started the voice transcription program. Then he zipped up what was left of Steven Green, 42, Llanrumney, and shoved him back into cold storage. Finally he sat down at the computer to turn his notes into a report. He emphasized the sexual activity connection between this victim and the previous ones, hoping Jack would raise an alarm with the right people. It was stupid to have to do the same damn autopsy day after day because some PR bastard at the city center didn’t want to risk the convention business by putting out a public warning against walking alone at night.

He posted his report to the rest of the team and grabbed his jacket. Up and out was the plan. He hoped to move fast enough that no one could find something he needed to do.

“Harper! Where are you going?” Jack stood leaning against his office door, arms crossed.

Owen reluctantly stopped. “Yeah, well, done all I can here today. Weevil victim’s autopsy report is posted; can’t do any more with your latest trophy until Ianto makes sure there’s nothing on it in the archives. I’d offer to help him, but I don’t think I’d be wanted.” He looked over to Ianto, who was sitting at a workstation but watching the interaction between Owen and Jack. From his expression, it was plain to anyone who knew Ianto that Owen’s help was welcomed even less than his assignment had been.

“Besides, it’s seven at night and I haven’t had a damned thing to eat all day. I’ve been here eight hours, and I’m about to fall over.” Owen flicked a glance back to Ianto to see if he’d have something to say about the leftover Indian take-away. Ianto just glared and turned back to his monitor.

“Fine, get out. But try and make it here for breakfast, not elevenses, tomorrow, eh?” Jack waved a dismissing hand toward the main door. Owen went.


	7. Chapter 7

Owen looked at the club across the street, surprised. He hadn’t meant to come here again. He’d been looking for some place new, some club to replace his now-forbidden regular stop. He’d wandered through the district, passing various clubs and pubs but never entering any. One club’s queue was too long; at another he couldn’t stand the music coming out of the door. This pub had a long line of motorbikes parked outside, that one had couples in formal dress entering it. So he’d kept moving, searching, vaguely dissatisfied with every place, until he was just walking without even looking at what he passed. And now he was here.

A fucking drag bar, Owen thought. I want a drink, I want a quick shag with some nameless bird, and I end up at a fucking drag bar.

He looked at his watch. He’d been wandering the district for almost half an hour. His mouth was dry, although the drug in his system might have helped that along. It certainly was why his feet weren’t complaining as much as they could have been. It was probably why he decided he didn’t give a damn if it was a drag bar; he needed a drink. And getting to bed early tonight could be a good idea considering the nasty creature he was slicing up tomorrow. That last thought left him shaking his head at himself. Since when was he responsible like that?

“Hey pet, you’re back! Step right this way.” The same gravelly voice greeted him at the entrance queue. The rope was dropped for him again. “Glad you found something you like.”

Owen just looked sideways at the guy and raised one eyebrow as he passed him. He refused to admit that he’d ‘found’ anything.

~~##~~

Ginny sputtered and choked on the sip of wine she’d taken right before laughing. “Tish, you’re shameless!” she gasped out.

The occupant of an electric-blue dress sitting next to her at the back bar continued the story. “Really honey! This guy has both hands on my arse, pulling us together so tight we’re nearly dancing back to back – to Scissor Sisters, no less – and he announces, ‘By the way, I’m allergic to feathers.’

“So I looked him straight in the eyes, or down into ‘em anyway because I had on those gorgeous yellow pumps, you know the ones, and I said, ‘Well then honey, what the hell are you doing in a drag club?’

“I mean there I was: six-foot-six from the top feather in my hair to the bottom of my spike heels, my falsies bouncing under his chin, not exactly strapped down tight down below like some girls around here do, and covered in yellow sequins. And you’re gonna tell me he didn’t know he was dancing with a drag queen? I couldn’t decide if I was doing something very wrong, or if I just wanted some of whatever he was drinking.” Tish shook her head ruefully, looking down into her drink, and took another swallow.

“Aw, Tishy, you know they grow those country boys pretty dumb. They come in from the mountains, seen nothing but sheep and women that look just like they do… Then up you come, all bright and colorful, and they just take leave of their senses.” Ginny took another sip, hoping it would chase away the burn from choking on the last one.

Swallowing, she laid a hand on Tish’s shoulder. “You put the ‘queen’ in ‘drag queen’, darling. The kit, the moves: you are simply brilliant.”

Tish leaned over and kissed the air by Ginny’s cheek, careful not to smudge her lipstick. “Coming from you, that means extra, honey.” Then she turned the rest of the way around to face the dance floor and leaned back against the bar. “So, what kind of action do we have here tonight? Just the regulars?”

“As far as I could tell,” answered Ginny, not bothering to turn and join her. “Middle of the week. Nothing new happening.” She waved at David the bartender for a refill.

Tish straightened in her seat a little. “Coo-ee. What’s this, then? Didn’t I see you leave with this’un last night?”

“Not possible,” Ginny replied, handing David some bills. “That one was straight, wandered in here by accident, a bit high. Nice enough bloke, but he got a bit of shock. He won’t be back.”

“Um honey, looks like the only thing ‘straight’ about that one is the direction he’s headed across the floor. Uh-oh, I think I need to investigate the new bar-boy. Later, sweetie.” Tish slid off her bar stool and out of Ginny’s line of sight.

Someone else took the seat before Ginny could even turn to see where Tish went. “Whiskey, neat. Double,” ordered the voice beside her.

She raised her eyebrows and took a sip of wine. “I didn’t think we’d see you back in here again.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t seem to have any place I want to be more.” Owen paid for the drink David sat on the bar in front of him and turned to face Ginny. “So here I am.”

She just stared at her drink and asked, “High again? Slumming? Come to stare at the queens and the rest of the queers?”

“Buzzed a little, yes. Not so wasted I couldn’t find my way back to the place where I’d shared a couple of drinks with a person who I thought enjoyed my company. Until now, anyway. But fine. I’ll have my drink; I’ll go.” He tossed back a large portion of what was in his glass.

She finally turned to him and laid a hand over the one he had resting on the bar. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take the piss at you for all the arseholes I’ve come up against in here. You got something different than you were expecting last night, and I didn’t think you’d be back for seconds.”

“Haven’t said I am.” Owen finished his drink and set it down. “Said I was here for drinks. Is that your first?” he asked, pointing to her glass. She shook her head. “Then I’ve got some catching up to do. Oi, David!” he raised his voice and waved at the bartender. “Another, mate. Single. Ta.”

“Right then,” he continued, turning around to face the dance floor, but looking back at her. “Are you expecting someone?” Ginny shook her head. “Am I ruining your chances of someone chatting you up, or asking you to dance?” More shaking. “Were you and your girlfriend in the blue dress having a nice natter that I interrupted?”

She snorted a little at that last one. “If you could call her talking at length and me making occasional agreeing noises a natter, then yeah; but you really did me a favor.”

“I could buy you drinks and talk at length, and you could make those agreeing noises at me. If that would be acceptable, that is.”

“Yeah, I could manage that. You can start now, if you like,” she replied, and swallowed the last of her glass of wine. Another appeared with Owen’s next drink, and he paid for them both.

Owen took a sip, and felt the warmth join up with what was already in his stomach. He didn’t want to think about anything in his life, much less talk about it. “I’ve got a better idea. I’ll ask you questions, and you tell me to piss off if there’s something you don’t want to answer.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s illegal, changing the terms after the bargain’s been struck. But since you’ve included an escape clause, I’ll stick.” She swiveled to join him in facing the dance floor.

“You’re not Welsh. Why are you in Cardiff, then?”

“They only do the surgeries in the bigger cities. From where I was – don’t ask – it was here or Bristol. I liked it better here.”

“How long have you been in the program?”

Ginny took another drink. “Nearly four years. They’ll put me on the surgery wait-list in two months, I hope.”

Owen nodded, knowing that surgery would depend on how well they decided she’d adapted to living in her chosen gender. He thought she was doing pretty well. “You said you work in a bookshop for shite pay. Why?”

“It’s an independent shop, not a chain, caters mostly to students from Cardiff University. I needed to be someplace where I could fill out an employment form as a male, but show up wearing make-up and a skirt. They don’t care what you wear to work. The more oddly you dress, the better you fit in with the customers.”

“Who’s your specialist?”

“Piss off, Owen.”

“What did your parents name you?”

“Piss off, Owen.” Ginny took a long swallow of wine.

The lights went down for the nightly slow dance. Ginny wasn’t certain she wanted to be there, after last night. She snuck a glance sideways at Owen, who seemed to be engrossed with watching the couples on the floor. She decided to do so too.

The little squares of light from the mirror ball spun round the club, touching the tables on the balcony, the people on the staircases, and the couples on the dance floor. Flashes bounced off glasses and glitter. The tempo of the music sped up for the chorus then slowed again. An electric piano dribbled up and down a scale.

Owen finished his drink and set it behind him on the bar. “Bollocks,” he muttered. He turned to her and said, “Dance with me.”

She looked over at him, puzzled. “I’m not what you’re looking for.”

“It seems you’re what I want.” He slid off his stool and held out his hand to her. “Dance with me, Ginny. Please.”

 _If you only had a minute to breathe, and they granted you one final wish,  
Would you wish for something like another chance?  
_  
She took his hand and they walked out to the floor. Stepping into his arms, she stared at his face for a moment. He looked back, but his expression gave away nothing. Then he sighed and pulled her cheek to his with his hand on the back of her head. Neither closed their eyes.

When the last guitar note died away, when the dance beat returned and club lights set to spinning wildly, Owen just stood there on the dance floor, holding Ginny. He stepped back and looked in her face. “Take me home with you, Just Ginny.”

She nodded, took his hand, and walked out of the club.


	8. Chapter 8

The Hub’s klaxon was just his bedside alarm clock sounding. The crash of girders falling around them was just the rubbish collectors emptying a tip in the alley far below. The red emergency lighting was just the sunlight on his eyelids. Jack, alive despite dying five minutes earlier from the bullets Owen put into him, did not have a grip on his ankle; that was just the bed sheet.

Owen lay unmoving until reality penetrated the fog of his nightmare, then crawled slowly out of bed.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink, wanting nothing more than to tell the world to go to hell while he fell back into bed. But failing to show two mornings straight would raise Jack Harkness’ curiosity as well as his ire, resulting in Tea-Boy snooping into his telephone and banking records and following his movements out of work hours via GPS and CCTV.

He was quite annoyed that Robbie’s latest find didn’t seem to stifle the nightmares like previous versions had. Of course, Owen hadn’t needed as large a dose of the new stuff, and he hadn’t been drinking nearly as much the last few nights either. But now his head was pounding from the remains of his subconscious’ latest offering, and his back and shoulders were so tense they felt like someone had laid about them with a lead pipe. He knew this wasn’t something that coffee and paracetamol would fix.

He’d managed just fine yesterday afternoon with half a dose; in fact, he’d felt better then than he had in days, he thought as he shaved. It was much easier to face the mess Torchwood delivered to his lab when he wasn’t in constant pain from the tension in his body. How nice it would be to feel that way as he walked into work this morning, instead of dreading every step because it took him closer to the place that provided the fodder for his nightmares.

~~##~~

Owen walked through the Hub’s main door as it rolled aside with something less than a scowl on his face. Ianto went past him headed for Jack’s office with a mug of coffee. Owen neither sneered at him nor ‘accidentally’ jostled him. Jack, leaning in the doorway of his office watching Ianto’s approach, raised an eyebrow and stood up.

“Harper!”

Owen turned and raised his eyebrows and his chin. “Harkness?”

Jack lowered his voice a bit, glancing over to Gwen and Tosh, bent over Tosh’s workstation. “You’ve got two more Weevil victims waiting for you in the lab. One of them worked with Gwen back when she was with the police, and she was the one that found him. A little discretion please, Owen.”

“I’m not a complete git, Jack. I can hold my tongue when I know there’s a problem. Thanks for the warning.” Jack had been right to say something, Owen thought. Otherwise he would have seen “police” on the report and immediately made some sarcastic remark to Gwen. He really could be a complete arse. He smiled to himself, but quickly quit when he realized Jack was still looking at him.

Before Owen could leave, Jack raised his voice. “Listen up, people.” He waited until Gwen and Tosh looked up and continued. “We’re supposed to be protecting Earth from aliens, and we’re not. This nightly slaughter has got to stop. From now on you bunk here, folks. We all go out when we get a call. We have to round up that pack, and we’ve got to do it now.”

~~##~~

He rolled his shoulders as he walked back down the stairs to the lab after lunch. He was starting to tense up again, he could feel it. Soon his back would ache and his head would start to throb. The Chinese take-away in his stomach would turn to rocks. But I know how to prevent that, he thought.

A few minutes later Tosh came down the lab steps, papers in her hand. “I’m sorry, Owen,” she said as she handed them back to him. “There’s nothing on any of the Torchwood computers about it, and nothing in the archives any place Ianto can think of to look. It’s blue on the outside, purple on the inside, and nobody’s ever reported seeing one before.”

He looked up from the report he was writing on Gwen’s police friend. “Well then, we’ll all be surprised, won’t we?” he replied archly as he took the papers. He watched her walk back up the stairs, tossed the papers down on the table next to his monitor, and pushed his chair back.

Walking over to the proper door, he opened it and pulled out the slab with the blue alien. “So, blue beastie, let’s see how you’re put together,” he muttered.

~~##~~

Owen squinted trying to discern where the dark purple connective tissue stopped and the dark purple organ began. Bloody impossible monster, he thought. At least a human corpse had the decency to be differing shades of pink on the inside so you could tell the bits apart. He shook his head, trying to clear it of his musings and concentrate on the dissection. He started to separate the organ from the connective tissue, but either he misjudged where the organ wall started, or his hand just didn’t do what he told it. The scalpel went right straight through the wall and into the organ.

The fluid inside was under pressure, and it shot up at him, drenching his chest and falling onto his thighs. It soaked right through his clothing to his skin with a quick hiss. “Shit, shit, shit, shit!” yelled Owen, dropping the scalpel in the corpse and backing away from the table fast. “Fuck. Help!”

He yanked off his lab coat, but his surgical gloves were covered in the goo and every time he grabbed his shirt he just pressed the stuff on it into his skin. “Bloody hell! Help!”

Gwen and Tosh came thundering down the steps. “Chem spill!” he yelled. “Goggles. Gloves. Get it off me!” He kicked off his shoes and peeled off one glove. “Fuck!”

Tosh ran to the spill kit on the wall next to the emergency shower. She tossed Gwen goggles and put on a pair. Gloves came next. Then Tosh grabbed a spare scalpel lying on the instrument tray and sliced Owen’s shirt down the front and the sleeves. “What is it?” she demanded as she pulled the material away from his skin.

“Acid, strong. Trousers too. Keep it off you. Hurry. Fuck.” He waved his still-gloved hand at Gwen to be peeled off while Tosh took the scalpel to his trousers.

Gwen started to pull Owen toward the showerhead, but Tosh grabbed her arm. “No. Not water on acid. Wait.” Out of the spill kit she grabbed a bright yellow box. She ripped the top off and poured it on Owen’s torso and thighs where the skin was wet and bright red.

“Baking soda?” asked Gwen.

“Absorbs liquid, raises the pH a little faster. Less risk of heat, fumes.” She shook more on and spread it a bit with the lightest touch possible. Turning to Owen she said, “All covered. Shower now?”

“Yeah. Shower. Burn kit.”

~~##~~

Owen sat in Jack’s office, dressed in the spare jeans and t-shirt he kept at the Hub. His chest and thighs stung despite the anesthetic he’d had Gwen put on them before she dressed the burns. His hair was still wet from the emergency shower, and he was chilled and shaking from the close call despite wearing his jacket.

Jack stood across the desk from him, arms crossed. Anger rolled off of him in waves. “Dammit, Owen, look at you! What are you on? I know you’re not sober because while the Owen Harper I know is an asshole, he’s a careful professional. Every test, every procedure is according to protocol.” He started pacing behind his desk.

“I’ll bet you have three different printouts sitting down in that lab telling you the exact pH level of every part of that thing. But were you wearing a chem. apron? No. You cut into it with nothing more for protection than a cotton lab coat. You weren’t even wearing goggles; you’re damn lucky you can still see. If Gwen or Tosh had been there helping you and got in the way…

“And the scalpel slipping? You’re too damn good for that. You pull lead out of us while we’re under fire, sew us back up with barely any local, and nobody flinches. That scalpel didn’t slip, or hit anything. You just couldn’t hang onto it.”

Jack stopped and slammed both hands down on the desk, and leaned in toward Owen. “Now you’re going to get the hell out of my base, into a taxi, and go home. You’re going to come back tomorrow morning, and every morning after that, on time, clean and sober. Or you don’t come back at all and I Ret-Con your ass back into the last millennium, without a background.” Owen nodded, unable to meet Jack’s stare.

Jack walked over and opened his office door. “Ianto?” he called. “Phone Dr. Harper a taxi. I don’t think he should be driving in his condition.” He turned back to Owen, and made an ‘after you’ motion toward the doorway. Owen stood up and headed out the door, still not looking at Jack.

Jack stopped him with a hand on his sleeve as he passed. “Oh, Owen –“ He waited until Owen looked up at his face. “If any of my team gets hurt because we’re a man down while you’re sobering up? I’ll Ret-Con you back past pre-med, I swear.”


	9. Chapter 9

Owen lay on the sofa, staring at the television, not seeing the programme on the screen. He kept pressing the button on the remote that changed to the next channel, but he never registered what was showing. Occasionally his body would start to shake until he stiffened all his muscles; he knew it was just its way of protesting the damage done. He felt cold, the blanket he was under was propped off his chest and legs to keep the pressure off his bandages.

Bollocks, he thought, and hit the power button on the remote. Lying back, he stared up at the bars of light on the ceiling from the late afternoon sun. He’d had a prescription dose of paracetamol but nothing stronger, trying to obey Jack’s demand that he dry out. The pain was down to a dull throb. There were things to do for the pain that he didn’t dare: whiskey was out given that he’d barely made it upstairs from the taxi before his lunch made a reappearance. As for the bottle in his jacket pocket… well, that was the cause of all the pain in the first place. Not that he didn’t consider it every five minutes. Maybe more often.

Owen knew that the old adage about doctors being the worst patients was certainly true for him. Bed-rest, pushing fluids was what burn recovery needed, but damned if lying here wasn’t going to drive him to drink, or worse. He needed out, he decided. Some sort of distraction, and maybe some food.

He was searching online for booksellers around Cardiff U. before he even realized that he’d decided what to do.

~~##~~

The taxi dropped him in front of his best guess. It was an independent shop with a website that also advertised vintage and indie music labels, and a monthly poetry slam. He paid the fare, wincing a bit as the tapes on his chest pulled when he stretched out an arm.

There was a man behind the till, ringing up books for a girl in black leather with blue hair. Owen couldn’t see Ginny from where he stood just inside the front door. He decided to walk the aisles of the shop, and ask after her if he didn’t find her. He was halfway down the first aisle when he saw her come out of the door to the back of the shop, carrying a piece of paper.

“Alun, tell the man on the phone it’s still on order, and we don’t expect it for a week. Honestly, he’s phoned daily the last three days. I think if I have to speak to him again it’ll go badly for one of us.” The man behind the till shook his head in agreement and picked up a telephone receiver.

Owen walked up behind her. “Excuse me, miss. Do you have Wollstonecraft’s _Letters Written… in Sweden, Norway, and Denmark_?”

Ginny startled and spun around. “Owen? How did you know where to find me?”

He started ticking off the information she’d given him on his fingers. “Independent bookshop. Caters to students at Cardiff U. Clientele with very, um, interesting tastes in fashion. And I can use a search engine.”

“What do you want, then?” She sounded a bit defensive.

“I want to buy you dinner. It would be really nice if, while we ate, you listened to me and made agreeing noises occasionally like we’d planned the other night. I had a day from hell at work – not that it wasn’t my own fault – and I’d like some company this evening. I’d like _your_ company this evening. If you’ll have me. What time do you get off?”

She studied his face for a few seconds. “If I say no?”

“Then I hit the fish-and-chips shop across the street and go back to my flat. I sit in front of the telly and get pissed until I pass out, which I’m not supposed to do because I’m recovering from some bad burns. And if…”

“Burns? What happened?” Ginny interrupted him.

Owen went for steamroller-persuasive. “Let me buy you dinner and I’ll tell you. You can make sympathetic noises and I’ll suffer nobly. I’ll confess my sins, and you can shake your head at what a fool I am. You can make sure I drink plenty of water and very few beers, and send me home to bed after I’ve run out of things to complain about. What time do you get off? Say yes.”

She gave in with a sigh. “Yes. Twenty minutes. Now browse around and buy something. Something expensive, Doctor.”

He was looking a little pale and woozy by the time she was done, so she made a decision she wouldn’t have otherwise. They got fish and chips take-away across the street and beer from the off-license in the next block, and she took him back to her place.

~~##~~

“Then he tossed my arse in a taxi. I went home, but I was going barmy just lying there staring at the telly,” he finished. Owen stretched and winced as the skin under a tape pulled. “Ouch.”

“Where are the burns?” asked Ginny, concerned.

“Chest and thighs. The tapes on the dressings are giving me as much trouble as the burns themselves. I can keep the pain down with enough medication, but the damn tapes yank.” He pulled a face.

“Do you need me to re-do them?”

He thought a second and answered, “No, the tape would still pull. I just have to remember not to use my arms much.” He looked longingly at his beer, which sat halfway across the table.

“What a baby.” Ginny slid it closer to him, although she knew he could reach it without any pain. “That’s your last one, you know.”

“But it’s just my first!” Owen protested.

“Lots of water, little beer. Burn recovery. I heard it from the doctor myself.” She looked at him archly.

“Bugger the doctor,” he grumbled.

Ginny pursed her lips. “From what I’ve observed, I don’t think he’d go for that.”

“Oi, what happened to the sympathy?” Owen complained with a hurt face.

She grinned at his act. “We’re past that bit. Now you’ve confessed your sins, and I’m shaking my head over what a fool you are.”

“Right then. That’s torn it.” Owen leapt up out of his chair with a mock growl and yanked her out of hers. She squeaked. He winced again and hissed as the tapes on his chest reminded him not to use his arms.

Ginny’s expression immediately turned from playful to serious and sympathetic, and she put her hands on his forearms to steady him. “Owen! Are you alright?”

“Yeah. It’s just going to take me a while to get used to the idea that I can’t do everything I want to, I guess.” He leaned in and rested his forehead on hers, putting his hands on her waist. “I’ve been a damned fool, Ginny, and I’m paying for it.”

She rolled her face up and kissed him gently, then pulled back. “You’ll just have to do things differently for a bit. Ask for help, not do so much yourself. Think about using different positions.” She smirked a bit.

Owen raised his eyebrows. “I thought we’d established that the doctor wouldn’t go for that?”

“Oh, I think tab A will still go into slot B whether it’s the tab or the slot that’s moving. We can certainly test the theory, anyway. Unless you’d rather I just rang a taxi?”

“No, I think I’m up for a test.” He pulled her in for another kiss. She was careful not to lean on his chest.

~~##~~

His mobile rang. He rolled off the bed, sucked in his breath at the pain from the burns, grabbed the phone out of his trousers pocket and looked at the number. Torchwood. Fuck, he thought. He hit the key and answered, “Yeah?”

“Owen? Can you work? It’s an emergency.” Gwen’s voice was tentative and stressed; she had been awake all night.

“Yes, I’m fine, I can move normally. You can tell Jack I’m sober, too,” he replied, not caring if she knew what the yelling had been about after the accident. If he was needed enough for Jack to have him called, then there shouldn’t be any doubt about whether he could work.

The phone was silent for a second. Owen knew Gwen was digesting his last bit of information, and probably passing on to Jack. Then she answered, “Good. The police have a pack of Weevils trapped in a warehouse. Knowing that lot, the Weevils won’t stay trapped long. We’ve got to go get them. You need to get here now.”

“I’ll be there in 15 minutes. I can’t make it any faster.” Owen knew it would take that long to get a taxi and get to the Hub from Ginny’s flat.

“As fast as you can, then.” Gwen hung up. Owen ordered a taxi, and started dressing, making the occasional face when a piece of clothing rubbed a burn dressing. He needed another dose of paracetamol.

At Ginny’s questioning look, he explained. “The police were jumped by one of those religious gangs I told you about before. I have to go help with the injuries, gather some evidence.”

She grabbed the t-shirt she wore to sleep in and pulled it over her head. “I thought you said they only attacked singles or couples?” Pulling on her shorts, she followed him out of the bedroom.

He grabbed his jacket and shook his head. “I guess a patrol caught them in the act. These gangs are out of control. Seems they’ll take on anybody now.

“It’s dangerous out there. You need somebody with you who can keep you safe. You don’t even want to go to the club any more unless you know I’ll be there.”

She stopped in the bedroom doorway, surprised. “You have got to be taking the piss! Stop living my life? Don’t go where I want, don’t see who I want, when I want? I’m an adult and I’ve lived in a city all my life. I know what precautions to take. Who the hell do you think you are to tell me what to do?”

“I’m serious, Gin. Until I tell you, don’t bring anybody back here, and don’t go home with anybody else. Don’t go out at night with anybody but me.” Owen couldn’t tell her it wasn’t just a bunch of lunatics with knives, couldn’t tell her that it was something no ordinary person could deal with, couldn’t tell her that he was Torchwood. He couldn’t tell her anything, she wasn’t cooperating, and it was starting to frustrate him badly.

To Ginny’s ears he didn’t’ sound frustrated, he sounded like an overbearing, possessive git. “What gives you the right? You have no claim on me. You come find me of an evening, and somehow or other we end up back here. We’re past one-night-stand, but I don’t know what we are now. We aren’t fuck-buddies; we aren’t friends at all. I’m not your whore; you don’t pay me, I wouldn’t take it. I’m not your mistress; you don’t keep me, I wouldn’t let you. I’m sure as hell not your girlfriend; you don’t even know my phone number.”

He was beyond frustrated. He was rushing into a possibly ugly Weevil situation while suffering from second-degree acid burns, he was trying to help her, she was making him feel guilty, and he didn’t like any of it. He snapped. “Oh listen, the pretty little queer wants candy hearts and flowers.”

Ginny’s eyes went wide with shock and hurt at his sudden left-turn into nasty. “I’m not queer, Owen. Or gay, or a drag queen. I’m transsexual: a woman born in a man’s body.”

He crossed his arms and sneered. She was so easy to take down, and he was in pain, frustrated, and angry enough not to care how deep he cut. Owen gestured at his crotch and hers. “Here’s a cock, there’s a cock. Last I heard about queer porn, that’s what they showed.”

She hugged herself and looked away from him. “Since I’m certain you’d take a swing at anybody who said you were queer, I know you want to be leaving now.”

“You’re fucking right I do.” The taxi’s horn blared outside, right on cue. Owen opened the door and turned back to face her.

“Since I’m cramping your style so much, Ginny, I won’t go back to the club any more. You’re right. There’s nothing there I want.” He slammed the door behind him.


	10. Chapter 10

Owen walked through the main door into the Hub to find the rest of the team gearing up for the field. Gwen was shoving a clip into her gun; Jack was tucking ammo into the pockets of his greatcoat. Ianto handed Tosh – already in her leather coat -- a rolled-up blueprint, and headed into the back.

Jack looked up. “Glad you could join us, Owen.”

“Weevils? Wouldn’t miss it,” Owen replied with a grimace, walking over to a desk where his weapon and ammo were laid out for him.

“How are you feeling?” asked Gwen.

“It stings like hell, but paracetamol cuts most of it. I can move normally. I just don’t enjoy it very much.” While he was talking, with one fluid motion he grabbed the gun with his left hand and a clip with his right, slammed the clip in the stock, and had the gun pointed at Ianto, who had come back in with a box full of spray canisters, by the end of his last sentence.

Ianto froze, his face schooled to show no expression. Owen smiled and flipped the gun around to show that the safety was still on. Ianto walked over to Tosh’s desk and set the box down like nothing had happened. Then he turned back to Owen. “Coffee?” he asked.

Owen had the grace to look slightly ashamed. “Ta, yes,” he answered.

Tosh picked up a canister from the box. “Owen, we tested your new formula on a couple of Weevils we brought in recently that weren’t affected by the original spray. It took them right down. So that’s what we’re going with tonight.”

Jack spoke up. “Here’s the sitch, folks. Cardiff police have chased a pack of six or seven Weevils into a warehouse down by the rail yard and surrounded the building. We’ve got to go capture them now. It’s our best chance, and if they get away I don’t know if we’ll get another, because I’m pretty sure the police have orders to shoot on sight.

“This pack behavior means we can’t separate individually to find them, so we’ll go in two teams to cover as much area as we can as quickly as possible and still remain safe. Owen’s with Gwen; Tosh is with me. Ianto will run communications from here. Let’s move, people.”

Tosh handed Gwen the blueprints and grabbed the box of canisters on her desk. Ianto appeared with a lidded cup of coffee for Owen. “Owen’s driving,” he said.

“Iantooooo,” complained Jack. “Owen’s hurt.”

“Seriously, sir. We just got the SUV back from the garage, and I had the devil of a time explaining away the blue hair and purple blood in the grille. I thought I would have to Ret-Con the lot of them. Owen’s driving.”

~~##~~

The SUV rolled up to a group of police vehicles with their lights flashing, outside a dark warehouse. From the direction of the lighted train yard two blocks away came the low rumble of trains moving slowly.

“Not our pack’s reported hunting ground,” observed Owen.

“The police chased them quite a way before they trapped them in here. I don’t know if this is somewhere close to their nest, or just the first place they could find to go to ground,” replied Tosh. “But since the pack took out a patrol last night, the police weren’t going inside after them. Unless there’s a big sewer entrance inside the building – and the filed plans say there isn’t -- the Weevils are still in there.”

As they climbed out of the SUV, a man with Chief Inspector epaulets walked over to join them. “Baker. Torchwood, eh? Word is these beasties are your speciality.”

“We usually take care of the problem, yes,” replied Jack.

“Well, we’ve got the building surrounded like you asked, and we know they haven’t come out. But several of the lads here were mates of the two that went down last night. They’ve been ordered not to kill, but I don’t expect that to hold, nor will I make a fuss if it doesn’t. They were my men, too.”

“I understand. Just let us do our job, and I hope none of you will ever see them again.” Jack nodded his head sharply in dismissal. The CI looked slightly disgusted as he turned to go back to his force.

Tosh rolled out the warehouse plans on the bonnet of the SUV. “This warehouse has two main aisles, but each is divided into separate storage areas by walls and doors at regular intervals. Also, some of the areas have smaller rooms and storage cages. The place is at 85% of capacity, so there will be lots of places for the Weevils to hide.”

Jack took over. “Okay, Tosh and I will take the left aisle, Owen and Gwen the right. Remember, it’s very important that we do a complete search of every area; we don’t want to miss their hiding place and let them get between the exit and us. The police have the building surrounded, but you heard the CI. They will shoot to kill and we won’t find out what’s causing our normally-solitary sewer-dwellers to run amok in packs.”

All four of them checked their weapons and replaced them in their holsters. Then each grabbed a canister of Weevil-spray and turned on a torch.

“Comms open all the time, people,” called Jack. “Owen, Gwen: I want to hear at least one of you all the time, and do not leave each other’s sight. Sing out the minute you spot them; we’ll do the same. Ianto, do you have a layout of the warehouse? We need you to direct traffic, especially when we have a sighting.”

“Up and running, sir. All four GPS locators are online, and overlaid on the warehouse plan. I’ll know exactly where everybody is, and how to get the two teams together when we need to,” Ianto’s voice came back over all four headsets.

“Alright,” replied Jack. “I don’t like it when Weevils don’t behave like Weevils, and I’m tired of autopsy reports in my in-box. Let’s take care of this problem.”


	11. Chapter 11

Owen eyed the open door into the next section from about ten feet back, his torch pointed to the floor to keep from giving away their presence.  He and Gwen were well down their aisle, three or four sections from the main entrance.  “Another open door,” he announced quietly into the comm.  “Gwen’s about to go through.”  She was up against the wall next to the doorframe, torch also pointed down, Weevil-spray at the ready.  
   
Jack’s voice answered in his ear, “Ours have all been closed, some of them locked.  Glad we got the passkey from the owner.  It looks like you’re on the winning track but I don’t want to abandon this aisle yet.  They may have cut back over using a side door somewhere.”

Ianto cut in.  “You’re a section behind the other team, sir.  Two, once they go through that door.”  
   
Owen answered, “We’re fine so far.  I’ll let you know if we find a door into your side that’s open.”  He nodded to Gwen, who returned it and clicked off her torch.  He moved his so its beam centered on the doorway just their side of the door to keep from blinding her, and she slipped through the door and put her back against the wall just the other side of the frame to get out of the light as quickly as possible.

“I hear something.  Torch off,” she whispered into the comm.  He obeyed.

She whispered, “Come on through when your vision adjusts.  I’m to the right of the door; I’ll slide over.  Jack, are you getting this?”  
   
Jack whispered back, “Affirmative.  Ianto, plot us a course there.  Give me a straight-line with the number of doors.”

“Working on it, sir,” answered Ianto into the comm.  
   
“Owen?  There’s quite a bit of shuffling,” announced Gwen.  
   
Owen was blinking hard, trying to adjust his night-vision.  “Almost there.  No good going in blind.  Ah, okay.  Here I come.”  He went through the door and slid in next to Gwen against the wall.

 “Now, where are your noises?” he asked, after a moment to allow his breath and heart to slow.

“Far left corner,” Gwen whispered back.  “Darkest part of the room, of course.  Ianto, are there any doors over there?”

There was a slight pause, then Ianto answered, “The only other doors in that section are in the far wall close to what would be your right corner, and on the side wall on the right as you’re facing.  If you’ve got light coming in from the windows along the top of the wall to your left, you should be able to see the latter on the interior wall.  Jack and Tosh will be coming through there if you need them.”

“Got it, Yan.  Thanks,” replied Gwen.

Owen could hear the shuffling now, too, and a low muttering.  He knew that sound well enough; Janet made that noise with any other Weevil in an adjoining cell, once dominance had been established.  “I know that sound; those are our guys,” he announced.  “Shame we can’t see a bloody thing.”  
   
“We can draw them out to where we can see them, or we can try and sneak up on them and hope we can see when we get closer,” offered Gwen.  
   
Jack’s voice came over the comm.  “May I remind you that there’s six or seven of them to your two spray cans?  Sneaking is good.  Sneaking is best.”  
   
“I did not say this, but… Jack is right,” replied Owen.  “However, sneaking won’t be easy.  Remember, they’re dark-dwellers.  Their vision is better, their hearing is better, and their sensitivity to the spray indicates better smell, too.  There’s no wind to deal with, but we have to stay away from the window light, and be quiet.”

“You’ll have to be quick once you hit the first one,” reminded Tosh.  “They’ve shown evidence of low-level empathy or telepathy.  They’ll know something’s wrong whether or not they smell traces of the spray.”  
   
Owen sighed.  “So, we’re outnumbered and physically under-equipped.  Jolly.  Shall we?” he quipped to Gwen, and tilted his head in the direction to go.  
   
“Age before beauty, Doctor Wanker,” answered Gwen.  Owen just snorted and headed along the wall, one hand on the trigger of his spray canister and the other out so he didn’t run into anything jutting out from the wall.

They were along the left wall headed for the far corner when Gwen whispered, “Owen?  The sounds have stopped.”  They both froze to listen.

~~##~~

“Ianto, get us there starting now,” commanded Jack.  
   
“Door to the next section is on the far wall, five feet to the left of the one you just came through,” he replied.  Jack and Tosh quit their search pattern and headed straight for the door, or as straight as they could while winding their way through a room full of construction equipment.

~~##~~

There was dead silence, then a snuffling sound.  More silence, then snuffling again, closer.  
   
Knowing she was right behind him, Owen turned back to Gwen and moved to where their noses were almost touching.  He laid a finger on his lip to signal for silence then tapped his nose several times to indicate that they were being scented after.  

Gwen’s eyes got big and she held both hands up and shrugged to ask, “What now?”  Owen barely gave it any thought before he pointed behind her, indicating that they should go back.

Gwen took one step backward to turn to go, then froze.  “Owen!” she shouted.

He turned to see half a dozen Weevils about 10 feet away in the light from one of the windows, moving toward them.  “Fuck!” he exclaimed.  “We’ll have to be right on them to use the spray, and we can’t afford to be surrounded.  Split!”  He went further along the wall, trusting Gwen to go back the way they’d come.  
   
~~##~~

“Ianto, I’m unlocking the door.  What next?” yelled Jack, frantic to get to the other part of his team.  Tosh was holding both torches so he could work the key and the bolt with both hands.  
   
“The side door into their section is along the wall to your left, about 20 feet.”

Jack yanked the bolt and pulled the door open.  He and Tosh set off to the left at a run, torchlight bobbing in front of them.

~~##~~

Owen came up behind the closest Weevil, who turned to face him despite Owen coming out of total darkness.  He hit it full in the face with a blast of the spray, but the Weevil just shook its head and snarled, reaching for him.  Owen backed away quickly and called out, “Spray isn’t working!  Get back!  Weapon, Cooper.”  
   
“Shite,” came the reply over his comm, followed by the sound of a spray canister going off and snarls from the pack of Weevils.  He dropped his can on the concrete floor with a clatter to dig out his gun.  He then ran what he hoped was behind the pack and turned across the floor to get to Gwen.  
   
~~##~~

Jack and Tosh stared with dismay at the sight revealed by their torches: a line of boxes, perpendicular to the side wall and ten feet high, starting at that wall and extending out into the warehouse, blocking their path to the door.  “Back along the boxes ‘til we find a path through them, and hope like hell they haven’t blocked the door with them,” commanded Jack.  “Ianto, work out what we do if we can’t use that door.  Hurry.”

“Already on it, sir.  If you can get through to the next section, there’s another side door and you can backtrack one section.  Otherwise, you’ll just have to come all the way back and go down their side.”  
   
“That’ll be too late.”  Jack exchanged grim looks with Tosh as they jogged down the row of boxes, looking for a path through them.  
   
“Yes, sir,” agreed Ianto.


	12. Chapter 12

Owen could see Gwen; she was struggling to get her weapon out of the holster while hanging onto the canister of Weevil-spray. “Cooper! Drop the damn can!” he yelled. As it clanged to the ground, he could see the Weevil coming up behind her. “Behind you! Get down!” he commanded, raising his gun to take aim.

But instead she spun around, still fighting to raise her own gun. Her eyes went wide as she realized her mistake and she started to fall to the right, but the Weevil was on her. It missed the killing bite to the throat and instead latched on to her shoulder as they both went down.

~~##~~

“Thank God,” whispered Tosh as they found a corridor in the stacked boxes and cut down it. It was about six boxes deep, then opened up and they could head back left toward the side wall. Breaking into a run, they threw their torch beams up on the wall head of them, and there was the door. Locked, of course. Jack tossed his torch to Tosh and ran ahead of her, passkey already in his hand.

~~##~~

Owen was running. He took careful aim and put two bullets in quick succession into the body of the Weevil attacking Gwen, hoping they wouldn’t pass through it into her. He skidded to a halt at her side, and whirled to find another Weevil coming up on him fast, the rest of the pack right behind it. He put a bullet into its torso, and another into its head with the recoil from the first. The Weevil fell. The rest of the pack stopped when they reached the body, then came on slowly, snarling. His oft-practiced dominance snarl had no affect on their advance.

~~##~~

There was a crash as Jack and Tosh came through the door in the side wall, guns drawn, torches pointing along them. “Take them down, Tosh,” ordered Jack, firing. Tosh was frightened enough by the sight of Gwen on the floor and Owen standing over her, surrounded by Weevils, to obey without question. Owen dropped down on top of Gwen to cover her and get out of the line of fire.

Jack was aiming for heads and torsos and had two Weevils on the floor already, but Tosh couldn’t do it. She decided that broken legs would stop them, and hit the one closest to her in the back of a thigh. It went down, and another one wheeled to face her. She took out both its legs in rapid succession rather than face being wrong about her decision not to kill. Jack put three shots into the last Weevil just as it reached for Owen’s back.

Owen turned his head to stare at the last Weevil then slid off Gwen, dropping his weapon. Shaking his head to clear it, he rolled Gwen onto her back and started assessing the damage. “Tosh, med kit, stretcher. Hurry!” As Tosh spun and ran off, he glanced up at Jack. “Thank you,” he said.

“Happy to help,” answered Jack, who took off after Tosh for the stretcher.

~~##~~

Owen slapped dressings on Gwen, swearing under his breath at the mess the Weevil bite had made of her shoulder. The claw marks on her arms and side had torn muscles, too. “Jack, we don’t have time to wait for the ambulance. We need to get her there fast. She’s lost too much blood.” He wrapped her arm tight to her body to keep the shattered bones in her shoulder area from moving.

Jack nodded. “I’m driving.”

Owen didn’t fight it; he just closed up the medical kit. “Ianto won’t like it.”

Tosh was on the headset as they loaded Gwen in the back of the SUV. “Ianto, phone Cardiff R.I. Tell them Torchwood, protocol 7, we’re bringing in two…’

Owen interrupted her on the comm. “Tell them to prep a surgery. We want an orthopedist, a vascular specialist and a neurologist. Her shoulder’s a mess – shattered bones – and she’s got several deep cuts in her arms and torso. She’s type B-positive, and she’ll need plenty of blood.”

“What about you?” Ianto asked.

“I’m fine, just scratches. Won’t need more than some stitches, if that. But they need to get Gwen in the minute we hit the doors.”

Ianto replied, “I’ll let them know. Tell Jack not to roll the SUV.”

~~##~~

Tosh was in a chair in the hall in Recovery, watching as Jack came out from behind the curtain around Gwen’s bed. Owen stood in the next to her, leaning against the wall, his arms wrapped around himself, shivering, staring at nothing, shaking his head. “Jack, how is she?” queried Tosh.

“She’s all patched up, sedated. The bite missed her neck. She’ll be out of commission for about six weeks, healing. But there’s no permanent damage.” Jack walked over to Owen and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Did you get checked out?”

Owen just kept shaking his head. “All my fault, all my fault,” he muttered over and over. Jack looked over at Tosh, and raised an eyebrow for an explanation.

“He’s been like this since we got here. He even let them stitch him up without a fuss. But he doesn’t say anything except that.” Tosh looked worried.

Jack grabbed Owen by both shoulders. “Owen?” When there was no response, he shook him slightly. “Owen!”

Owen looked up at him at last. “All my fault, Jack. Again. Christ, I’m a fuck-up.” He lowered his gaze back to the floor.

“Were you drunk?” Jack asked. Owen shook his head ‘no’ without looking up.

“Stoned? Messed up?” Again, Owen shook his head.

“I saw the end of it. You weren’t too hurt to maneuver.” Jack raised Owen’s head with a hand under his chin, until Owen met his eyes. “You saved her life, Owen. There wasn’t anything else you could have done.”

Owen exploded into movement, throwing off Jack and stepping away from him, down the hall. “I’m the fucking reason they attacked, Jack! Dammit, have you been reading the autopsy reports?” He whirled around to face Jack. “I came straight from bed. Somebody else’s bed.”

Jack and Tosh’s eyes widened as they remembered Owen’s theory about the attacks.

“She said you needed the help in a hurry, and I was so damn eager to prove you could trust me I just went crashing out of there… And hell, the way I left…” Owen broke off and scrubbed his face with both hands, remembering the way he’d slammed out of Ginny’s flat. “Now things are even more fucked up than when you threw me out of the Hub yesterday afternoon. I swear, everything I touch goes straight to shite.”

“Owen, we did need you. We couldn’t have –“ Jack started.

Owen interrupted him, “No Jack, you don’t need this. I’m going back to my flat; you’ll have my resignation on your desk after I get some sleep. Tell Gwen I’m sorry.” He walked off down the hallway toward the exit. Tosh stared after him with her mouth slightly open in astonishment. Jack just watched him walk away with a grim expression on his face.


	13. Chapter 13

Owen fought his way up out of his painkiller-enforced slumber, distressed by the blood red light in his eyes. When he was finally awake enough to open them, he discovered the light was simply the setting sun shining through the windows of his flat onto the couch where he’d crashed that morning. He’d been lucky to make it that far into the flat, close to passing out from a combination of painkillers, post-adrenaline-rush low, self-recrimination over the events of the evening, and having been awake for over 24 hours.

He tried to sit up, only to discover there wasn’t a single inch of his body that didn’t hurt. The acid burns on his chest and thighs stung. He had scrapes on his knees and hands from dropping down to cover Gwen. He’d required stitches to his right arm where a Weevil had managed to connect with a good swipe --- there went another damn leather jacket -- and now that the local anesthetic had worn off, that wasn’t a fun-fair, either. He must have slept without moving for… he squinted at the closest clock… nearly twelve hours, because every joint and muscle in his body was stiff. His head was throbbing, and every time he moved it felt like someone was shoving daggers into it.

After finally convincing his body to stand, he staggered to the kitchen for some water and more of the meds he’d brought away from the hospital. The water helped clear out some of the nasty taste in his mouth. Looking down, he discovered he was still wearing the torn, blood-soaked clothes he’d had on for the last 36 hours. He decided a shower was definitely in order.

It took two rounds of shampoo before he could no longer feel any dried blood in his hair, and Owen spent the entire shower with his back to the flow of water to keep it from torturing his burns. He had to dry off and re-bandage the burns while sitting on the toilet; the simple act of standing in the shower had exhausted him. He’d had a devil of a time with the tapes for the bandages and wished for Gwen to do it like she had in the lab. That had immediately brought up the sight of her in the warehouse, lying unconscious in a pool of blood while he bandaged her. He slammed a mental door on the picture as fast as he could.

Putting on clean clothes, he wondered how Jack would deal with explaining the wounds when the inevitable dose of Ret-Con and the accompanying personal-history rewrite happened in a day or two. Jack had threatened to wipe the last 15 years of his life and dump him. Owen was too tired to decide if that would happen, too tired to guess at a back-story for the wounds, too tired to decide if he cared. And… hungry. His last meal had been fish and chips with Ginny. Another mental door slammed shut quickly.

He reheated the leftover lo mein he’d found in the refrigerator, praying that it was neither too old to be safe nor too little to keep the painkillers from upsetting his stomach. He’d followed the lo mein with another glass of water, and the water with a beer, hoping it would relax his stiff muscles where the shower had failed, and the pounding in his head that the painkillers had not yet managed.

He dragged out his laptop to write up his letter of resignation. He mentally titled the file “Fuck_off_Torchwood.doc” but chose to settle for a simple “resign.doc” in case he decided to email it because he couldn’t face walking into the Hub to deliver it in person. He considered a sneaky 2 AM drop-off, but hell, Harkness slept there and odds were that Tea-Boy would be there too, shagging the boss. Owen knew he was in no shape physically or emotionally to go a round with either of them. Besides, Ianto was apt to put another bullet in him for endangering the rest of the team, and he’d seen enough of the hospital for a while.

The damn pounding in his head would not go away, despite everything he’d thrown at it. Well, he had one more thing to try, and it had never failed him in the past. The threat of losing his job no longer hung over him... ‘In for a penny, in for a pound,’ as his Gran used to say. He fished the stuff out of his jacket pocket, thankful that it wasn’t the one he’d been wearing when he went out the night before.

There was only half a dose left. Owen wanted more, needed more. He needed enough to keep the memories, the tension, and the pain away until Jack showed up with the Ret-Con to take care of the problem permanently. He washed it down with the last swig of his beer and grabbed his private mobile, smiling a bit at the thought of how hard Ianto would have to dig to discover that phone line as part of the process of “retiring” him, and the shock on his face should it not be found and trigger a memory recall for Owen which landed him back at the Hub.

“Robbie? Now, no cause to take the piss, I told you last time that work had been a bitch. The new stuff’s good; I’m just looking for a refill.

“Fuck, that’s almost twice as much! No, I’m good for it; you know I am.

“An hour, then. Yeah, no problem. See you there.”

~~##~~

He had the taxi drop him at the bank branch three blocks from the Orb-and-Crown. He needed to use the cash-point but didn’t want to be where Robbie’s “friends” might spot him and take advantage of the situation. He’d seen two or three large, unfriendly-looking men who he guessed were Robbie’s muscle on his previous visits; one usually hung around outside the pub’s front entrance. His cautious action seemed to work. He made a withdrawal and walked to the pub unmolested.

As far as Owen could tell, the pub served as Robbie’s office. He was always in the same back booth no matter what time Owen went in, and there were always two of his large “friends” in the booth next to it. Although Owen had never actually measured it, he was pretty sure the level of beer in the glass next to Robbie never changed, either.

“Doctor Harper. Pleasure to see you,” said Robbie as Owen slid onto the bench across the booth from him. Owen had never given Robbie his last name, but he knew that dealing successfully was nearly as high-tech a job as his own. He wasn’t really surprised the first time Robbie had addressed him by it. He was fairly certain Robbie had never discovered who his employer was though, because occasionally there was a sideways question about it.

“Stuff it, Robbie. I know you’re only pleased to see my money.” The various drugs and alcohol in his system, and the knowledge that this was probably the last time he’d deal with Robbie, made Owen not care much about being polite.

“Right then." It seemed Robbie felt no need to be polite, either. "You’re a miserable, whinging, pinch-faced git, and I like relieving you of your dosh. You’ve got secrets I can’t uncover and I don’t like that, but I know you’re actually using what I provide you so I’m living with it. Shall we complete our business quickly so we don’t have to be in each other’s presence any longer than necessary? There’s a pretty new Rolls with my name on the title, just begging to be broken in.”

For a few seconds, Owen deeply regretted obeying Harkness’ “no alien tech outside the Hub” rule. There were a couple of easily-palmed devices that had fallen through the Rift that he would have liked to have had right that moment. One would have turned Robbie into a puddle of slime; the other, a pile of ash; and neither would have made a sound doing so. Owen could have disposed of the bastard and been halfway across Cardiff before the boys in the booth behind him discovered their boss was missing rather than just silently calculating his profits.

“This is the amount you told me on the phone. I still don’t like the increase, but I’m living with it.” Owen pushed an envelope across the table.

“Supply and demand, Doctor Harper. This has recently become hard to come by, and I’m just passing on my costs like any businessman.” Robbie smirked a bit as he set a pill bottle in front of Owen.

Owen snorted and dropped it in an inside jacket pocket as he slid out of the booth. “Right. I think the Rolls probably has more to do with it.” Purposely neglecting any sort of good-bye, he walked out of the pub.


	14. Chapter 14

Owen stopped at a newsstand to pick up a bottle of water.  His burns and stitches were starting to protest being ignored, and he had just the thing to silence them now.  A few minutes later the pain was no longer a problem.  
   
He walked past a Starbucks and noticed a man at the table in the window, banging away at a laptop.  For less than a second, he remembered the resignation letter on his machine at home, neither printed nor sent.  Fuck ‘em, he thought.  They could wait.

The more he thought about it, the better leaving Torchwood sounded.  No more dangerous, foul aliens to capture, test, or dissect.  No more autopsies of the poor arseholes that had the misfortune to encounter an off-planet visitor, should they even leave a corpse.  No more hunks of junk that might send him anywhere in space or time.  No more co-workers just as likely to shoot him as shag him, and he, them.  No more magically disappearing and reappearing immortal boss to simultaneously worship and despise.  No more beautiful women dropping through the Rift just long enough to turn him into a begging fool before they left.  
   
A nice big dose of Ret-Con was sounding better and better.  If Jack was feeling generous, he’d end up in a coroner’s office somewhere.  If he wasn’t…  Well, Owen wouldn’t know the difference, would he?  Anything would be a relief after the last few days.  Days, hell… he wouldn’t mind losing the last year, easily.

Freedom from Torchwood!  This called for a bit of celebrating, but where?  He’d told Ginny he wasn’t going back to the club any more.  Ah, Ginny.  Another guilty little problem he was happy the Ret-Con would take care of. 

But of course now that he’d told her that, his stubborn streak insisted the club was exactly where he wanted to be.  His sneaky side mentioned that there were plenty of dark corners in which to hide and drink where Ginny would never see him.  His common sense spoke up to note that he could get a drink (almost) anywhere in Cardiff, why the hell did it need to be in a drag club?  Sneaky side and stubborn streak poked at the rest of his little voices like petulance and self-entitlement, who were already looking forward to having a nice party.  The lot of them jeered common sense into silence.  It went off to have a nice sulk, promising retribution when they all sobered up.  
   
Owen relaxed into the floating feeling the drugs offered and let his feet automatically take him to where he wanted to be.

~~##~~

As he stood inside the door of the club letting his eyes adjust, he spotted an empty table in the back corner of the balcony, in shadow.  It was perfect; he could sit and watch people and drink while running little risk of being bothered.  He might have to throw something at a server to get waited on, but he decided he could live with that.

Apparently the server saw him take a seat, because he was there almost immediately.  “What’ll you have, handsome?” the kid asked.  
   
Owen was buzzing on the drugs, decided the guy was just flirting to build up tips and not serious, and chose to ignore it.  “Whiskey, neat.  Double this first round, singles on the refills.  You will remember I’m here, right?”

“I couldn’t forget you, hon.” As he watched him hurry away from the table, Owen decided those tight trousers had to be uncomfortable, but probably helped the kid’s income, or at least his love-life.

~~##~~

“Well hell-lo, doll.  What are you doing here?” a deep voice asked in a feminine, singsong tone.

Owen looked up.  At eye level was the hem of a bright yellow skirt, covered in sequins.  Raising his gaze higher, he amended ‘skirt’ to ‘dress’; higher yet and it became ‘tight dress’ as it wrapped around what were obviously super-sized falsies.  Still higher and there was a face in shadow except for a pair of shiny red lips smiling suggestively.  Tilting his head back as far as it would go he saw bright yellow feathers bobbing atop an elaborately curled black wig.

He looked back down at his glass, picked it up, and wiggled it slightly.  “Drinking.  Sod off.”

“Now, that’s not at all friendly.”  The person in yellow pulled out the other chair at the table and carefully eased onto it.  “I know you – you’re Ginny’s bloke.  I haven’t seen her here tonight.  Why are you hiding up here?  I’m Tish, by the way.”

“I’m not Ginny’s bloke and I’m not hiding.  I’m sitting in a club, having a drink,” he took a swallow, “and I doubt very much that Ginny will ever see me again.”

“Aw, pet,” commiserated Tish.  “Lovers’ quarrel?”

Owen snorted.  “Hardly.  Just… finished.”

Tish pouted a bit at his refusal to elaborate, and tried another tack.  “Y’know, Ginny said you were straight; that you wouldn’t be back.”

He glanced at her sideways to see if she was serious.  “Not exactly straight if I shagged Ginny, am I?  Seems I’m what my boss likes to call ‘flexible’.  Ex-boss,” he corrected himself and took another drink.

“Ex-boss?  Did he try to get ‘flexible’ with you?”

“Not bloody likely.  I’m not pretty enough, and he’s got the tea boy attending to his every need, anyway.  And he really disliked the way I disagreed with him about a work matter.  No – I fucked up, people got hurt, so I quit.”  One last swallow and his glass was empty.  
   
Tish finally took a drink of whatever the brightly colored drink was she had in her hand. “So… no job, no shag… are you drowning your sorrows?”

“Nope.  Celebrating.  A day or two and all this shite will be forgotten.”  Another whiskey appeared on the table.  Owen looked up and exchanged brief smiles with the server, then raised his glass toward Tish.  “Here’s to being a free man.”

Tish clinked her glass against his.  “Celebrating, I like,” she said.  “But it shouldn’t be done alone.”

He waved his free hand vaguely at the club.  “Does this look like alone?”  He took another swallow.  
   
“There was nobody at this table but you, ‘til I got here.  And yeah, I invited myself to the party, but at the time it looked like a pity-party.  Not what I call a celebration.  Now me, baby, I know how to celebrate.”  Tish pointed to her chest with her empty hand.  
   
“Enlighten me, oh Queen of Celebrating,” Owen countered sarcastically.  A small part of him was surprised he was encouraging this conversation.

 “Well, there’s drinking of course,” she waved her glass at him, “and company,” she waved it at herself, “and music, and sometimes dancing.  Do you dance, Not-Ginny’s-Bloke?”

“That?”  He gave a sharp nod at the dance floor.  “No, I don’t dance.”  A slow five-note rhythm and a smoky sax line tried to sneak out of his memory.  He slammed a mental door for the third time that night, and followed it with a whiskey chaser.

Tish laid a hand on his thigh.  “Now then, there’s dancing and there’s dancing,” she said and pressed her nails down ever so slightly.

That small part of Owen that had been surprised he was talking to her got an even bigger surprise.  Not that she made a move; he could see that coming practically from the time she sat down.  But damned if he wasn’t interested!  How about that?  A fucking drag queen, he mused.  He didn’t know if it was just curiosity, if it was the attention, if it was the high, or if maybe it was a chance to take on someone bigger than he was.  Hmmm, he’d had a little extra response at that last thought.  Right then.  She’d sure as fuck be a lot less dangerous than climbing into a cage with a Weevil.  Better pay-off, too.

“Yeah,” he replied.  “I guess you do know how to celebrate.  And maybe I will dance.”  
   
Tish looked slightly surprised for a second, then smiled.  “Hmm.  I figured you’d tell me to piss off.”  
   
“You yanking my chain, then?”  He raised both eyebrows at her.  
   
“No, luv, I’m always up for a dance.  You alright with someplace close, or do you need atmosphere?”

He didn’t need hearts and flowers; the loo was perfectly fine for what he had in mind.  “Close is alright by me.  Shall we?” he asked, pushing back from the table.


	15. Chapter 15

The hall to the bathroom was fairly well lighted, and it backlit Tish as he followed her to the opening.  No more glaring yellow dress, just a sparkling outline where the light reflected off the sequins.  The human equivalent of a big sign with flashing arrows – ‘This way to a fuck’ – Owen thought, and smirked.

It was kind of funny how close her nickname was to Toshiko’s, his brain rambled on, freed by the drugs and alcohol.  She was everything Tosh wasn’t: big, brash, dumb, and well, drag queen.  Yin and Yang.  Tish and Tosh.  Gran’s old phrase, meaning nonsense.

They were almost to the doorway when a hand grabbed his arm.  One glance down told him it was Ginny’s.  He stopped and turned to her, impatiently.  Tish stopped to watch.

“You said you wouldn’t be here any more.”  Ginny looked up at him, puzzled.  
   
He stared at a spot on the back wall, over her head.  “I’m not, as far as you’re concerned.”  
   
“I don’t understand.”  Her tone of voice said she feared she might.  
   
He looked down, and let all his anger out at her.  It was easy; the anguish, the drugs, the booze, they all amplified it.  “You want to be cozy.  That’s not what I need.  What I need tonight is a fast fuck.  Or two. No soft looks, no clinging hands.  And as soon as you let go, that’s what I’m going to get.”

“With that?”  Ginny jerked her head in Tish’s direction, her eyes glistening just a little.

“For starters, yeah, with that.”  
   
She looked away, because the tears were threatening to escape.  “You’ll have no problem.  She’s probably shagged everybody else in the building.”

”Well then, I’ll just complete the set, won’t I?”  He raised his eyebrows imperiously, and yanked his arm away from her hand.  She let him, but didn’t look at him.

“Are you high again, Owen?” she asked, like she didn’t already know.  
   
“Flying. Smashed. Messed-up.  Choose your favorite phrase.  You took advantage of it before.  Don’t like anybody else doing that?  Tough.  Not your fucking problem any more.  Literally.”

Tish laid a hand on his shoulder.  “C’mon baby, let’s go have some fun.”

“Alright.  This ain’t exactly a barrel of laughs, is it?” he sneered, and they walked off down the hall.

“Bastard.”  Ginny whispered, but didn’t look up to watch him walk away.

The minute the stall door closed, Tish reached for his belt.  Owen pushed her hands away, spun her around to face the wall, and pressed her up against it with his right hand between her shoulder blades while he managed his belt, button, and zip with his left.  He yanked his trousers and underwear down, then pulled her skirt up with both hands.  Giving a pleased grunt at finding no underwear to bother with, he kneed her legs apart.  He spit on his fingers and started working them into her.

“Condom?”  She sounded a little frightened to ask.  
   
He pulled his fingers out.  “Too late for that,” he said, and rammed himself in.  
   
He had to hang onto her waist for leverage, otherwise he’d have put his hands on the wall to keep from touching her.  She tried grabbing his right hand once to bring it around to her front.  He just yanked it away and slapped hers back up against the wall.  When she pleaded, “Baby –“ he grabbed her head and hauled it back so she could see his face.  
   
“I don’t give a flying fuck if you get off or not.  But let me warn you -- come on my shoes and I’ll punch you into next week.”  He let go, grabbed her hips again, and pounded into her harder.

When he came, he laid his forehead against her back for a minute to catch his breath.  Then he straightened, unlatched the stall door, and pulled her away from the wall.  In a low voice he said, “Get out.”  
   
Tish just stood there looking at him with uncomprehending eyes.  “Get. Out!” he yelled with clinched teeth, and pushed her, stumbling and tugging down her skirt, out of the stall.  He shut the door again behind her, and leaned against it scrubbing his face with his hands.  
   
His stomach was burning; his head was pounding.  Owen knew the drugs made it better, made him forget, dulled the pain.  So he fastened his trousers back up and fished the stuff out of his pocket.  A little nagging voice said something about too much, too soon.  He figured was the same little voice that was causing his stomach to clinch and his blood to pound in his ears, so he told it to shut the fuck up and swallowed the pills dry.  If they stuck, he’d wash them down when he got back out to the bar.  
   
He was out into the hallway when he found his path blocked.  What looked to him like three leather-clad biker-boys stood side-by-side.  There were two or three more mixed in with the half-a-dozen drag queens behind them.  Tish was in the back, mascara running down her face.

“Hey, you arse,” said a biker, stopping Owen with a straight-arm to his chest.

Owen staggered backwards a step and gave them his best sneer. “Fuck off.”

Instead, the crowd backed him against a wall.  “You’ve hurt the wrong people,” the biker continued.  “Now you’re gonna hurt.”  
   
“What, Tish don’t like it rough?  Coulda fooled me.”  Owen’s mouth was on sarcastic autopilot, the way he’d been dealing with being physically overpowered all his life.  
   
“What Tish ‘don’t like’ is being treated like trash.  And that’s what you just did.

“We’re family here, Mister Slumming-with-the-Queers.  We take care of each other.  Now you’ve managed to get two of our sisters in tears in the last five minutes.  We don’t like to see any of them that way, any time.  And we plan to take care of the problem.”  
   
The last word was punctuated with a burly fist to Owen’s diaphragm.  Sliding down the wall trying to catch his breath, he noticed that one of the “girls” had a broken broom handle as it came swinging to meet the side of his head.  His vision went white and he curled up in a ball as the full onslaught began.

~~##~~

Ginny was sitting at the bar enjoying a nice scathing chat with David the bartender about what jerks men could be.  David went home from work two nights earlier to find his flat half-empty and a rambling voicemail from his (former) boyfriend that boiled down to, “I’ve found someone else – he’s prettier, he’s rich – I’m gone.”  David and his boyfriend had let the flat together, and there was no way David could afford it by himself.  And a bunch of the missing stuff was David’s, to put the top on it.

She felt a hand on her shoulder and turned.  Tish stood behind her, mascara smeared and a benevolent smile on her face.  “I’m sorry, Gin, I don’t know what I was thinking.  I hurt you, and over a piece of scum like you’d find on the floor of the loo.  But don’t you worry – me ‘n’ Georgie and some of the others have cleaned up the problem.”  
   
Ginny grabbed Tish’s arm, puzzled.  “Cleaned up the problem?  You mean Owen?  What happened?”  
   
“He’s sorted out, hon. We ‘explained’ to him that we didn’t like people hurting our little family, explained it over and over until that smart mouth of his didn’t answer back any more.  Then Georgie and Harry dragged him to the service lift and tossed him out the back.  When he comes to, he’ll remember the explanation for a long time, and I don’t think he’ll be back here again.”  
   
“You… he’s…” Ginny’s eyes widened as she thought, Owen.  Outside.  The crazy gangs.  “My god, he was so messed up.  I just hope he’s still…” She grabbed her bag, pushed past Tish, and ran down the bathroom hall toward the lift.  
   
Tish just looked at David.  “Stupid bird.  Love, eh?”  They shook their heads together.  
   
Ginny burst out of the club’s back door to find Owen in a heap beside it, unconscious.  His face was battered, eyes swollen shut, nose and lips bloody.  There was more blood in his hair.  One arm laid at an odd angle half-under his body.  When she knelt down and leaned over him to see if he was breathing, she could hear a fluid-filled rattle with each shallow breath.  At least he’s alive, she thought.  
   
She went through his pockets, looking for his mobile.  She opened the programmed list of numbers and started scrolling through it.  Please let there be something marked for emergencies, she prayed.  “Torchwood, ICE.”  She pressed the button to dial it.  
   
“It’s 2 AM, Owen.  What have you done?”  The man’s voice had an American accent, and he sounded slightly disgusted.

Ginny took a breath.  “Owen’s hurt.  Badly.  Unconscious, they beat him.  I’m about to dial 999, but I thought you should know.”  
   
There was a slight pause, and the man’s voice came back. The tone had changed to one intended to calm. “Okay, honey.  We’ll take care of Owen.  Now, where are you? “

“The Club High Life, on Queen Street but I don’t know the number.  Behind it really, in the service alley.  Oh god, he’s a mess.  His breath… he rattles.”

“Okay.  I’m going to call an ambulance on another line.  Don’t hang up on me.  Wait just a second for me, would you?  Just hang on.”   
   
“Yeah,” she said with a shaky breath.  “Hurry, though.”

~~##~~

Jack hit the mute button.  Man, was he glad he had what was left of his team still living in the Hub 24 – 7, cleaning up the mess from the Weevil gang.  He could have used Gwen, too.

“Man down!  Toshiko, get me a GPS read on Owen’s mobile.  Then get an ambulance there and ring Cardiff R.I. that we’ve got one coming in.”

“Protocol 7?” Tosh asked, already pulling up the GPS information on her screen.  
   
“No, this was just Owen being an ass, I think.  No bites or burns to explain away.  Still, tell them not to alert the police.  No telling what he was doing.”  He turned to Ianto, who had come up beside him when he heard Jack call out to Tosh.  
   
“Get me a 24-hour wipe of Ret-Con.  He’s got a girl there with him, and I don’t know how much she knows.  Twenty-four hours back will give us enough time to deal with how Owen got his injuries, and to rearrange her life if we have to.  
   
“Then start the SUV.  I want to beat the ambulance there.”  
   
Jack turned took the mute off his phone. “Honey, you still with me?”  
   
“Yeah.”  The woman’s voice was soft, low, and shaky.

“Okay.  The ambulance is on its way, and I am too.  You stay right there and don’t try to move him.  It’s all taken care of.  You’ll have help in a couple of minutes.  Just sit tight.”  Jack walked out to the SUV.  Ianto was waiting in front of it and tossed him a bottle.  
   
“I’m going to hang up now so I can drive, but I’ll be there before you know it.”  
   
“How will I know you?”  The woman’s voice held a bit of suspicion.  
   
Jack chuckled.  “I sound like an American, I’m wearing a big gray military overcoat, and I’m tall, dark, and gorgeous!”

Ianto glanced over at Jack after he hung up.  “Forget it sir, you’re not driving.”


	16. Chapter 16

A large black SUV with tinted windows came down the alley, pulled past Ginny and Owen a ways, and stopped.  Two men got out of the front.  
   
“I don’t see why we couldn’t have stopped right there,” said the passenger.  He had an American accent and his large grey overcoat swirled around him.  Ginny recognized the voice from the phone call.  
   
“Because, sir, the ambulance wouldn’t have been able to pull up,” came the reply.  The driver wore a nice mac over a suit, and his accent was city Welsh. 

Both men hurried over to Ginny.  The man in the gray coat squatted down next to her; the other stood back a bit and stared down at Owen.

“Hi, honey, I’m the one you spoke to on the phone; my name’s Jack.  How’s our boy?” asked the man next to her.  
   
“He hasn’t moved.  His breathing scares me.”  Ginny’s voice was shaky.

Jack put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  “He’s tough; he’s come through worse.  We’ll take care of things when the ambulance gets here, but I’ll have to know what happened.”  The siren could be heard in the distance.  
   
Ginny closed her eyes.  “When I first saw him tonight he was drinking and he was already stoned.  He was headed into the back with Tish.  I guess something went wrong, because she gathered up Georgie and some boys and they went to town on him.  She told me about it afterward because she knew he’d taken the piss at me, and I came right out here and found him.  That’s when I called you.  I haven’t touched him; I don’t know what’s broken and I was afraid to.”  
   
Jack and the other man exchanged glances, then he turned back to her.  “Do you know what he’s on?”

“No, I don’t do that shite, I’ve too much at stake.  You can check his pockets.  As high as he was, he has to have it on him.”

Jack looked Owen over.  There was a bulge in his left front trouser pocket.  He carefully slid the pill bottle out, opened it, dumped a few out in his hand, and handed them to the other man.  “I don’t know if Tosh can run the tests, but she can at least check their appearance against the catalog,” he said as he passed them over.  The other man took a notebook out of his coat pocket, ripped out a sheet of paper, and carefully folded it around the pills.  He tucked the notebook and the drugs back into his pocket while Jack put the lid back on the bottle.  
   
The ambulance siren reverberated off the buildings as it came down the alley and stopped.  Its doors flew open and the attendants spilled out. 

Jack turned back to ask Ginny something and noticed she was shivering.  Standing up, he tossed the pill bottle to the other man, took off his gray coat, and bent over to wrap it around her and pull her to her feet.  He led her over to sit on the steps leading out of the club’s back entrance.  “Do you want to go to the hospital with him?” he asked.

She shook her head and stared down at the steps in front of her.  “No.  We’re not... it’s not like that.”

Jack lifted her chin with a finger so she would look at him.  “This is a pretty noble thing to be doing if it’s not like that,” he observed.

“Well, Tish made it sound like they’d done it for me, at least partially, although I never asked for it and I never would have done.  And I knew he was messed up, couldn’t take care of himself out here.  And, well, he came back, bothered to find me, even after he knew I wasn’t… and he was kind… at least until the phone call last night…” her voice trailed off and her expression said it was more complicated to explain that she could handle.  
   
“Shhh, it’s ok,” Jack said soothingly, smoothing a hand down her hair.  “You’re tired, and this has been a bad night.  Why don't you let Ianto here take you home, and then I’ll call you from the hospital as soon as we know how Owen is?”  He gestured at the other man, talking to the medics as they loaded Owen, now on a stretcher, into the back of the ambulance.  
   
Ginny looked at the two men numbly then nodded her head.  Jack stuck his hand out in Ianto’s direction, and the other man gave him the notebook from his pocket and a pen.  “Okay, let me get your name and number and I promise I’ll call you.  It’ll probably be a while; they’re apt to need some time to fix what’s broken.”

Ginny wrote down her phone number and name, and handed the notebook and pen back to Jack, who gave them to Ianto after looking at the name.  “Ianto, this is Ginny.  Ginny, Ianto’s going to drive you home and make sure you’re inside before he follows us to the hospital.”  She nodded again.  
   
“This way, please, miss.” Ianto gestured toward the SUV.  After she started toward it, he turned back and raised his eyebrows in inquiry at Jack.  Jack shook his head negatively.  “Later,” was all he said, and went to get in the ambulance with his unconscious team member.  
   
~~##~~

Alun came out of the back of the bookshop holding Ginny’s mobile.  “You said you needed to know,” he said as he handed it to her.  “Go on, I’ve got the till.”

“Thanks, Alun,” she said, and started looking up the voicemail on her way to the back.

She dialed the number, and it was picked up on the first ring.  “Hi Ginny!  Our boy’s out of surgery,” came Jack’s cheery answer.

“Hi,” she replied.  “How is he?”  
   
“All patched up, but still out cold.  There’s a real laundry list of what they fixed; can I buy you lunch while I tell you?”

Ginny looked at her watch.  “I guess.  Where?”

“Let’s see… You’re working at the Last Exit, right?  What’s over there… There’s that Indian place around the corner.  Is that alright?”  
   
“Fine.  What time?”  Ginny was relieved he hadn’t mentioned the fish and chips shop.  
   
“Thirty minutes?  I have to convince Ianto to let me have the SUV keys.”  Jack sounded a little exasperated.  
   
“Sounds okay.  I’ll see you then.”  
   
“Bye, honey!”

~~##~~

Of course they had a rush just as Ginny needed to leave, so by the time she got to the restaurant, Jack was already seated, two water glasses on the table.  He waved, stood up, pulled out her chair for her, and seated her.  
   
“Old fashioned manners to go with the clothes.  My Gran would approve,” quipped Ginny.  “For the first time,” she added _sotto voce_.

“So, what’s good here?” asked Jack conversationally as they opened their menus.

“It’s Indian.  Done well, but no specialties,” she replied as she took a sip of water.  “Order whatever you usually get.”  
   
After their orders were taken, Ginny asked, “So, Owen then.  What’s the damage?”

“Busted ribs, broken femur, cracked cheekbone, dislocated shoulder.  Bruised lungs… bruised just about everywhere, actually.  Managed to avoid any other internal damage; kept his spleen and everything, lucky bastard.  He must have rolled up like a ball the minute they started in on him.”  Jack shook his head in wonder.  “I can take you to see him if you want, but he’ll be completely out of it for a couple of days, and he looks pretty bad, too.”

“No I told you, we aren’t like that,” she answered, taking her drink from the server, who had reappeared.

Jack smiled megawatts at the server has he accepted his.  She looked slightly dazzled, and gave him one in return.  “So, what are you two like, then?” he asked Ginny.  “Us at work, we’re close, and we’re pretty much the only family Owen has, so it’d help me to know.  He treated you badly enough in public that your friends gave him a beating, yet you called for help and sat with him in the cold in the middle of the night.  That sounds like something to me.  Where did you two meet?”

Ginny looked at him quizzically, but he seemed so earnest.  “At the club, three… no four nights ago.  We talked, we drank, and we danced.  I took him home with me.  He was high enough he didn’t figure out what kind of place the club is… well, not until he got a hold of me.  By then he was messed-up enough he shagged me anyway.  He was… okay with it, even understanding… even after he sobered up a little.  When he left, I figured that was the end of it.  
   
“But he came back the next night.  Headed right for me.  And then day before yesterday, he came into the shop, bought me dinner, and told me how badly he’d screwed up with an acid spill at work.  He was looking for some mothering; it was kind of endearing.  Flattering, even.

“Then he got a call that night to go work.  He got all he-man about me not going out at night by myself and other such rot because of the religious nuts roaming the streets, attacking people.  And I told him I’d do as I liked, then he got really nasty, and I got nasty back and he stormed out.

“Then last night at the club…  Well, you know the rest,” Ginny concluded.  She leaned back as her lunch was placed on the table before her.

“Wow.”  Jack tore off a piece of naan, then looked up at her.  “So, how’d you know to call us last night?  Did Owen talk about us much?”  
   
“It’s in his mobile with ‘I.C.E.’ after it.  I was looking for that, or ‘Mum,’ or some such.  No, the only thing he’d said was that he worked on some forensics things with the police, and that was just to warn me about not going out by myself or with just one friend at night because of the gang they were chasing.”  She blinked a couple of times, trying to clear her vision.  “Does it seem hot in here to you?”

Jack smiled slightly and poked a fork-full of lemon-rice in his mouth.  “I think the ‘flu is going around.  Maybe you’re coming down?” he asked as he chewed.

“This time of year?” Ginny replied, and blinked again.  
   
“Caught it at the club, maybe?  All those people in each other’s faces, good place to spread germs.  By the way, you probably shouldn’t be going to a drag club any more if you want your evaluation for surgery to go through.  A psychiatrist probably won’t see hanging out there as moving toward a life a straight woman.”  
   
She was finding it hard to think.  She didn’t remember telling Jack anything about getting a sex change, or even that the High Life was a drag club.  But he was there last night…  Neither her thoughts nor her eyes would focus.  
   
“You may be right.  I really don’t feel well,” she agreed.  “I think I need to go.”

“Right, honey.  I’ll take you home.  I’m sure your boss doesn’t want you back at work sick.”  Jack got the check from the server.

In the SUV, Ginny was having a hard time keeping her eyes open.  “I’m so sorry.  This came on suddenly,” she apologized.

“That’s okay.  You haven’t felt good all week, and when you get over this you won’t remember much about any of the last five days.  When people talk about it, you’ll have to just nod your head and pretend.  Anything they say about boyfriends, or fights, or beating somebody up – none of it will mean anything to you.  Just explain that you’ve been fighting off the ‘flu or some other germ, and everything’s a blur.  People will understand.”  Jack worked on sounding sympathetic and trying to drive in a way that wouldn’t have had Ianto turning white and putting his foot through the floorboards.


	17. Chapter 17

Owen came to slowly, barely cracking his eyes open beyond slits because the light hurt.  
   
“The sleeper awakens,” came a familiar voice off to his left.  
   
“Da…” His throat was so dry nothing came out.

“Just a sec’,” Jack said.  There was the sound of liquid pouring, and a cup was held in front of Owen with a straw touching his lips.  He took a sip of water, rolled it around his mouth a little, and swallowed.  Took another.  
   
“Now…  What?” asked Jack.

Owen closed his eyes again.  “ _Dune_ was shite,” he rasped.

Jack chuckled.  “You really are with us, this time.  Good.”  
   
“This time?”  
   
“You came to a couple of times yesterday, but not for long and you were a lousy conversationalist.  I’m not surprised that you don’t remember.”

“Yesterday?  How long…” he asked.  
   
“Ginny found you about two yesterday morning; you got out of surgery about eleven.  It’s about three in the afternoon, now.  A day and a half, give or take,” Jack answered.  
   
Owen turned his head to stare at Jack.  “Ginny?  Oh, hell.”  
   
Jack smiled, “Yeah.  Sweet kid.  Phoned us on your mobile, sat there in the alley like a guard dog until we got there.  I don’t know what you did to inspire such loyalty, but you obviously screwed it up because she wouldn’t come with us to the hospital either time I asked.  So I Ret-Conned the last week from her, because she doesn’t need the grief of knowing you and you sure as hell don’t deserve her.  Try to contact her, and I will make what her friends did to you look like dancing lessons,” he finished in a mild tone that was really menacing.

“Yeah, well, my ‘exit package’ should take care of that.”  Owen laid his head back on the pillow.

“We should talk about that.  When you’re up for it, of course,” Jack asked.

Owen groaned, “Hell, get it over with.”

“I don’t want you to quit.”

That got Owen’s attention.  He stared at Jack.  “I don’t believe that.  Besides, I don’t know if I want to deal with this job any more.  I never know when something I’m studying is going to try to kill me.  Or if my co-workers will.”

Jack gave him a wry smile and a chuckle.  “Your co-workers don’t shoot you without provocation.  And you know damn well this job is the only one you’ve ever had that you found interesting.  You’d be bored stiff anywhere else.  
   
“If you decide you really are done with us – done with the crazy, done with the danger – then when you’re nearly healed we’ll take away Torchwood, give you a nice back-story including a bad auto wreck on your way to your new job, and set you up in something you’d do alright at.  I know you hate patients; I think you’d probably be quite happy in a morgue somewhere, slicing open the dead to make sure that heart attacks aren’t really rat poison.  
   
“But, if you decide to come back to us, your doctors say you can do desk work in a month and probably go back into the field two or three weeks after that.

“I want you back, Owen.  When you’re sober and on your game, you’re a brilliant medical specialist, a good field agent, and your intuition sometimes finds things we can’t otherwise.  But you have to want to put all the horrible things in the last year behind you.  You have to want come back, because that’s the only way you’ll stay straight.  Because Owen, when you fuck up, people get hurt and they get hurt badly.

“I need Doctor Owen Harper, smart-assed medical genius.  I do not need Owen Harper, self-pitying, messed-up twat.  I can’t afford him, and I’m tired of dealing with him.  
   
“So what’ll it be, Doctor Harper – a cozy slot in some county coroner’s office, or do you want to save the planet some more?”

Owen just stared at Jack for a minute.  “Is your fuzzy blue road kill still in the cooler?” he asked.

Jack grinned at him.  “Yeah.”

“Put it on ice, because I can’t get to it for a month.”

~~##~~

Owen sat on the passenger side of the SUV, glaring at Ianto. “Seriously, I could have taken a taxi home.”  
   
“Jack wanted someone to make sure you got settled in.” Ianto didn’t bother to take his eyes off the road.  
   
“Why couldn’t one of the girls have done it?  Gwen, Tosh?”  Owen knew he was both whinging and insulting.

“You’d have bullied Tosh into waiting on you full-time, and Gwen’s hardly in better shape than you are right now, or had you forgotten?”  Ianto glanced at him sideways to watch his reaction.

Owen had the grace to look guilty.  “No.”  
   
“Besides, I’m the one that stocked your flat.  I should think you’d want to know where I put things,” Ianto continued.

“Gonna take care of me now, too, Tea-Boy?” Owen mocked.  He was pleased to see Ianto’s knuckles whiten as he gripped the steering wheel, although there was no reaction on his face.  
   
Ianto remarked conversationally, “If it had been my call, I’d have dumped Ret-Con in your I.V. right after surgery and transferred you to someplace like Inverness, with all your files indicating you were a knacker.  Instead I’m going to tuck you in with tea and biscuits, pop in on you a couple of times while you’re recuperating to restock your larder, and drive you to work the first morning you come back in.

“Jack has a soft spot for fuck-ups, which has been a good thing for all of us who work for him.  But you can only fuck up so many times, even working for Jack.  Don’t do it again Owen, or you will find yourself collecting horse carcasses outside Banff, and I won’t ask Jack before I arrange it.”  
   
~~##~~

Jack’s computer pinged at him.  He hit a function button and a new window popped up on his monitor.  It was a trap he’d had Tosh set up in Owen’s account right after he went into the hospital, one that went off if Owen hacked into any system having to do with Ginny, like her various doctors or the bookshop.  If Jack wasn’t there to watch in real time, the transaction was recorded.

“Oh, Owen, what are you doing?” worried Jack as he watched Owen access Ginny’s psychiatric files.  This was Owen’s first day back in the Hub, although he’d been telecommuting for two weeks “to keep from going starkers,” he had said.

Owen moved up Ginny’s final evaluation date by one month and tacked on a vague note in medical jargon about behavioral reports showing a successful transition.  He then routed the file to the appointments department, making it look like it came from the specialist’s account.  The window on Jack’s machine was closed as Owen logged out.

“Seems like Owen’s been paying closer attention to Ianto’s cover-up work than he let on,” mused Jack.  “Well done, Doctor Harper.  Well done.”

~~##~~

Ginny grabbed her purse to pop across the street for fish and chips, and noticed there was a voicemail message on her mobile.  She listened to it, her face growing puzzled.  Then she dialed another number.  
   
“Hello, this is Ginny Miller, you left a message for me to schedule an evaluation?” she began.  She listened to the receptionist’s explanation.  
   
“Seriously?  It’s not due for another month,” she continued. “But yeah, if you’re sure.  When’s your first available?  Yes, I can do that.  Thank you!  Good-bye.”

“Alun?” she called as she walked toward the front of the shop.  “You’ll never believe what just happened.  That was the specialist; they’ve moved my evaluation up a month!”

“That brilliant, Gin!  I’m happy for you, girl.”  He pulled her in to a hug.  “No worries about this place; just do what you need to when you have to, alright?”  She nodded as he let her go.  They both pretended to ignore the tears in the other’s eyes.

“Oh, and Gin... double chips for me.  Ta!” he called after her as she went out the front door.  
   
   
 _Fin_


End file.
